{" A gentleman is simply a patient wolf. "}
The Royal Garden was quiet in the way sacred places are quiet, less about silence and more about the feeling that even the wind knows how to whisper instead of speaking. I walked beside Spark, my steps measured, my nerves coiled low in my belly. I had worn neutral tones. Nothing that would draw attention. But as we passed under the sweeping arches of ivy and into the open heart of the garden, I realized nothing I wore would ever make me feel invisible here.
Because they were all waiting, and so was General Mortas. He stood off to the side, arms folded, his expression unreadable beneath a shade of bone-pale stone. His dark armor looked oddly out of place beside the sun-warmed roses and curling fountains, like war and peace had accidentally touched palms.
Spark shifted beside me, body instinctively more alert.
"Why is he here?" I asked under my breath.
"Maybe for show," Spark murmured. "Or protection. From whom, though…"
