"Good. Return to your cohort," Elara said, turning back toward her door.
Ken offered one final, respectful salute before turning on his heel and marching down the corridor, his heavy guard boots echoing with a steady, lethal cadence. He had his orders. The prince would be an asset on a ledger, kept in a cage of Ken's own design, thoroughly isolated from the woman who had bought his territory with a signature.
Elara pushed the door to her chambers open, stepping into the quiet, sunlit room.
The air was different here in the main palace—cleaner, crisper, smelling faintly of lavender and beeswax rather than the cedar and musk of her administrative office. She walked over to her desk, where a fresh pot of tea was waiting.
Sitting in the chair opposite her desk was Mahir.
