Damien passed silently through the side entrance of the main castle building, slipping between gaps in the patrol routes like smoke filtering through cracks.
The air within was noticeably warmer than the cold stillness of the stone courtyard, filled with the heat of torches and the dull murmur of celebration.
Music floated up from the lower levels—a slow string composition played by a live quartet, masking the occasional bursts of laughter and clinking glasses from the grand hall beneath.
The birthday celebration was in full swing. Damien didn't need to look; he could hear it. The noble class toasted over wine, danced beneath crystal chandeliers, and smiled with masks of porcelain civility.
He imagined them—rich, blissfully unaware that the man who had almost led their country to civil war now sat above them, crippled but unrepentant.
Lord Raegon.
None of them knew he'd lost an arm as he'd only returned a day earlier and refused to see anyone.
