Theron held his father's gaze, unmoving. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if that question—Do you like her?—had come from somewhere genuine. If, perhaps, the King had cared enough to ask.
Well… he would know now.
But the King did not answer him. Instead, his attention shifted to Ingrid.
"And they call you jealous and vindictive," he said, his tone almost amused, "when you concern yourself so deeply with the stability of the throne."
Ingrid lowered her gaze, her voice soft, measured. "I have bound my loyalty to you, my King. You know I would never guide you toward harm."
Theron almost laughed. The sound rose in his chest, but died there. He didn't have the energy for it.
"She met with Lady Rosalyn just now," he said instead, his voice cutting through the room. "Aren't you going to ask what she's plotting with a Caelvaris?"
The King turned back to him.
Whatever softness had lingered vanished the instant their eyes met.
