He approached the trembling maid with a measured stride, the weight of every eye in the grand chamber pressing down on him. The air hung thick with the scent of polished marble and faint floral incense, but beneath it all lingered the sharp tang of fear. Liam's pulse hammered in his ears. *'This isn't me. Not really. But if I hesitate now, Citra loses everything.'*
Citra turned to him, her golden eyes wide with a mix of desperation and fragile hope. "Wait—you have experience interrogating prisoners… or war criminals, yes?"
The question landed like a thrown gauntlet. Liam met her gaze, reading the silent plea there. She needed him to be strong, to be the husband the court expected. His stomach twisted, but he forced his voice steady. "Yes. I do."
A ripple of relief passed through Citra's posture. "Very well. She will be handled by you."
