The grand courtyard of the royal palace was a chaotic sea of crystal lanterns, clattering carriage wheels, and shouting footmen. Later that night, the capital nobility was streaming out of the gates in a frantic, dignified rush, eager to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the lingering stench of royal murder plots.
Among them was the Northern group. Neither Zarius nor Cherion had any intention of staying another night at the palace. They stood near the grand marble mounting block, waiting for their heavy carriages to be brought around from the stables.
"Lord Cherion!"
Cherion turned his head at the sound of his title. A small group of capital nobles, a baron and two high-ranking court ladies, were walking nervously toward them, their silk cloaks gathered tightly against the cool night wind.
Cherion braced himself, but to his utter surprise, the baron stopped a few paces away and bowed deeply, his face pale with sheepish embarrassment.
