Ashen burst through the heavy doors of Alexis's private chambers like a storm breaking over the mountains. The two guards stationed outside lunged forward, spears half-raised, but froze the instant they met his gaze. Flames flickered at the edges of his irises—dragon fire barely leashed.
"Move," he snarled, voice low and lethal. "Move more than a finger, and you will regret it for whatever short time remains to you."
The guards remembered the last time the brothers had clashed: blood on marble, scales glinting, the king himself unable to intervene. They stepped aside without a word, backs pressed to the wall.
Ashen kicked the inner door open.
Alexis was half-naked, tunic unlaced, chest still flushed from whatever—or whoever—had occupied him moments before. His wife scrambled beneath the duvet, clutching silk to her breasts, eyes wide with shock.
"What did you do to my wife!" Ashen bellowed, voice echoing off gilded walls and velvet hangings.
