Bian sat slumped against the broken wall, panting, his arms scraped and his knees bruised from where he'd collapsed. Dust and blood clung to his lashes. He dared not look up.
He was certain Dican would kill him.
How could he not?
He had betrayed a Farian prince, tried to enslave him with cursed Grayling magic—used a dark concoction meant to break even the strongest of minds. Dican should've sliced his throat open.
But then…
A hand touched his shoulder.
Warm.
Steady.
Gentle.
Bian flinched violently.
But the hand didn't hurt him.
Instead, it curled beneath his elbow, lifting him slowly and carefully to his feet. Bian, stunned, blinked up into golden eyes no longer filled with rage, no longer glowing with cold fury or suspicion.
Instead… they were soft.
"Are you hurt?" Dican asked, voice low and steady.
Bian's throat went dry.
His mouth parted, but no sound came out.
Was this a trick?
A trap?
