"What's wrong, Your Highness? Your face is suddenly pale." Alaric's voice was honeyed with false concern, but the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips betrayed him.
Florian's eyes narrowed sharply, even as his throat tightened. He swallowed hard—again and again. His mouth was beginning to flood with saliva, a warning sign his body couldn't ignore. The nausea coiled like a viper in his gut, twisting tighter by the second.
'Is… he doing this on purpose? Does he know Heinz and I were there the night the village burned?' Florian's thoughts were sharp and fast, barely keeping up with the pounding of his heart. His gaze flicked to Heinz, who hadn't taken his eyes off him—not Alaric. Heinz didn't seem worried about what had been said. He was worried about him.
'I have to keep it together.'
He could already feel the judgment in the room—subtle glances from the other dukes, the shift in their posture, the suspicion behind their eyes. He didn't have time to lose composure.
