By the time Lucas and Patrick forced their horses through the inner ring of royal guards, both mounts were slick with sweat and breathing hard. The king's banner snapped above them, and the slow, relentless march of the army pressed forward like a tide that did not know it was heading toward jagged rocks.
Lucas dismounted before he had fully steadied himself and demanded, with restrained urgency, a private audience.
The guards hesitated only a moment before sending word. Within minutes, a tent was raised at the king's command, its canvas thrown up quickly against the wind as soldiers formed a protective circle around it. The army unaware of the storm gathering in that small enclosure.
Inside, the king stood rigid, hands clasped behind his back.
His face betrayed exhaustion more than anger, but the exhaustion had hardened into something sharp and brittle. When his gaze fell upon Patrick, who had removed his borrowed helm, something dangerous flickered in his eyes.
