The Seventh Prince let out a short, mocking exhale—a sound that was half-sigh, half-scoff. He didn't even bother drawing a weapon. Why would he? In his past lives, this was the exact moment the Iron Convoy ceased to exist, turning into a hollow shell he could effortlessly step over to dismantle the Marquisate from the inside out.
He took another slow, unhurried stride into the center of the hall, his boots stepping right through a puddle of overturned stew.
Perched on the sloping roof beam, Heena watched his every move like a hawk tracing a field mouse. The burning rage in her chest had crystallized into a freezing, lethal focus. ''Sickly? Bedridden?'' she thought, her eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. ''The Imperial Palace deserves an Oscar for keeping this monster's true nature under wraps.''
