The air between them felt heavy and suffocating, thick with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and the lingering, eternal chill of Dreadmoor. Lucian felt his breath catch in his throat as Soren's shadow seemed to swallow him whole.
There was no one else in the king's private chamber but Lucian, Soren, and Thomas. The moment Soren walked in, Thomas had dismissed the guards.
There were three parchment scrolls resting on the little mahogany table, looking like crossbows ready to fire; their blood-red wax seals were gleaming in the warm candlelight.
Lucian glanced down at the scrolls, then looked back into Soren's golden eyes.
At close range, the commander had a really strong presence. The jagged scar across his cheek and eyelid made him look like a fearsome, legendary figure. Like a man who had shed blood for every inch of his territory.
