Nobles, courtiers, and commoners alike had gathered in the stone arena, the weight of expectation pressing heavy on the air.
Execution day.
Alaric entered first, Daphne at his side.
His hand never left hers; their fingers interlocked in a grip that was both protection and possession.
A hush fell over the assembly as eyes turned toward them.
Whispers rippled like wind through dry grass.
Bruises.
The Regent's Rose walks marked. But no voice dared rise above a murmur.
The knights bowed their heads even lower than usual.
The mark of his jealousy was now part of her crown.
Daphne felt the stares burn across her skin, but Alaric's grip anchored her, steady and unflinching, daring anyone to question.
At the center of the arena, the prisoners were dragged in chains.
Cedric, the old schemer, his grandson, the arrogant crown prince, the three captured men, Elara pale but unrepentant, and six nobles once cloaked in respectability.
Bound, broken, yet still recognizable.
