The dim torchlight flickered across the worn wooden table in the inn's back room, casting long shadows that danced like uneasy spirits. Liam's heart hammered against his ribs as he leaned forward, his calloused fingers gripping the edge of the table. Sweat beaded on his brow—not from fear alone, but from the raw, gnawing frustration of watching everything slip away again. 'Not this time,' he thought fiercely. 'I've lost too much already.'
The princess sat across from him, her elegant features drawn tight with exhaustion, her once-vibrant eyes shadowed by sleepless nights. She wasn't some distant royal anymore; in the short time they'd shared, Liam had seen the woman beneath the title—the one who laughed at his clumsy jokes, who fought with a fire that matched his own desperate need to protect what little he had left.
"Were they guarding the tomb entrance?" Liam asked, his voice low and steady, though tension coiled in his muscles like a spring ready to snap.
