The silence of the field was absolute, broken only by the frantic, uneven thudding of Julian's own heart.
Out here, under the vast, uncaring blue of the Southern sky, Julian felt smaller than he ever had in the frozen wastes of the North.
In the North, the danger was the cold—it was honest, it was predictable, and he could save himself with his winterizing balm. But here, the danger was a smile and a glass of blood-orange juice.
He lay there, paralyzed by the realization that he was a pawn in a game between two brothers.
Once again, he was thankful for Duke Alaric's sudden protectiveness at the table, but that protectiveness had only painted a larger target on his chest. Every time the Duke looked at him with that raw, guilt-ridden longing, it was another nail in Julian's coffin.
It was another reason for the Emperor to look at him with his dangerous obsession.
