Daemon walked through the streets of Werthingham as if he owned them.
It didn't matter that this was the royal capital, not his own city of Istra, Daemon carried himself with the same commanding presence, and the same untouchable confidence.
The people parted for him without thinking, their instincts recognizing power even if their minds refused to acknowledge it.
Davon followed in his wake, feeling the difference in the air. Werthingham was grander than Istra, the heart of the kingdom where politics and power thrived in endless, ruthless games.
But tonight, under the glow of lanterns and the hum of distant revelry, it was just another city. Another place where Daemon Lorge could drag him through the streets, as if Davon were something worth saving.
They walked in silence, past noble estates and bustling taverns, past the towering statues of kings long dead.
