"Duke Aithur."
The name dropped like a guillotine blade.
Luther's entire body stiffened as the man stepped from the shadows with the kind of calm arrogance only he could pull off. It wasn't loud, it wasn't dramatic — he simply appeared, like he had been carved out of the darkness itself.
Aithur moved forward, every step deliberate and unhurried, boots whispering against the mossy forest floor. His cloak fluttered faintly behind him, catching slivers of morning sunlight.
Eldric — who had moments ago been ranting to rocks — went pale. His legs trembled as he stood and bowed stiffly, head lowered so fast it was a miracle he didn't snap something.
"Y—Your Grace," he stammered.
But Aithur didn't look at him.
Luther watched the Duke with wide, sharp eyes. How…? Aithur should have been at the capital. He should have been surrounded by servants. He should have been anywhere except deep in this corrupted forest.
His thoughts spiraled.
