"Marielle? You want Marielle as your betrothed?"
Across the room, King Alderon leaned back in his seat, watching the Northern Duke with quiet, observant eyes. Iryna sat straight and composed, while Gillian hovered beside her, looking as though he were sitting on thin ice.
In Zarius's mind, the scattered puzzle pieces of the last twenty-four hours suddenly clicked into place with sharp clarity. Marielle's unusual restlessness last night, the way her eyes kept darting toward the palace horizon, it wasn't just hangover fatigue or lingering stress from the poison investigation. Marielle had known. Or, at the very least, she had strongly suspected that this exact conversation was brewing behind closed palace doors.
Zarius leaned back into his seat, crossing one long leg over the other. His tone became measured, deeply analytical, and completely devoid of reckless heat.
