The Council chamber smelled like old blood and older grudges.
Caelan walked through the iron doors with his spine straight and his cane striking the marble floor in a rhythm that said I am here because I choose to be, not because you summoned me, which was a lie so massive it deserved its own postal address. His shoulder was screaming beneath the fresh bandages he had applied in the carriage, and the silver fragments Isadora had missed were still burrowing through his muscle like tiny, malicious worms with a personal vendetta against his continued existence.
Three days of hard riding through winter storms. Three days without sleep, without feeding, without the particular torture of lying outside her locked door listening to her breathe on the other side and knowing that every breath she took was a breath that hated him.
He looked magnificent. He had made certain of that.
