I dropped the curtain, my hand trembling against the damp wood as I spun around, my voice a frantic whisper. "Draven. He's here. My father... the Duke of the North. He's right outside with an army."
Draven didn't panic. He didn't even stand up immediately. He slowly finished fastening the buckle on his left boot, letting out a long, deeply irritated sigh as if his morning had been personally insulted. He stood up with that signature, lazy predatory grace, his silver eyes completely calm, carrying that bored, mocking indifference that usually meant people were about to die.
"The old wolf of the North," Draven murmured, adjusting the collar of his dark cloak. "How aggressively tedious."
