Dance of Knives

Prince Darian arrived at court on a storm front.

Elara felt his entrance before she saw it—a shift in the room's energy, a murmur rippling through the assembled nobles like wind through wheat. She turned from her conversation with a minor baroness to find Darian Vane standing in the ballroom doorway, rainwater dripping from his cloak onto the marble floor.

He'd come straight from the northern campaigns, apparently. Mud still clung to his boots. His dark hair was windswept, his green eyes bright with something that wasn't quite sanity. He wore military leathers rather than court dress—a deliberate statement, she realized. He wasn't here to play the courtier's game.

He was here to make a point.

"Brother!" His voice carried across the room, warm and sharp as a blade wrapped in silk. "I came as soon as I heard you were finally hunting for a bride. Couldn't miss the entertainment."

Kaelen, standing near the throne with a cluster of advisors, went very still. Only Elara, watching closely, saw his hand tighten on his wine glass.

"Darian." His tone was perfectly controlled. "We weren't expecting you for another month."

"Surprises are good for the constitution. So I've heard." Darian strode into the room, accepting greetings with casual nods, touching hands, leaving a trail of rainwater and disrupted expectations. He moved like a man who owned every space he entered, legitimate or not.