Chapter Text
The great hall of House Wolffort rang with the sounds of revelry. Torches flickered along stone walls draped in banners of yellow and silver, the colors of Glenbrook reclaimed. Long tables groaned under platters of roasted venison, spiced breads, and flagons of dark ale. Lords, merchants, and retainers alike raised their voices in celebration of the hard-won victory against the Aesfrosti invaders. At the high table sat Lord Serenoa Wolffort, heir and now de facto master of the house, his posture straight and commanding even in this moment of respite.
Milo moved through the crowd like liquid silk. Her loose, flowing garb, dyed in the vibrant hues of southern sands, clung to her form with every sway of her hips.
He is even more commanding in victory than the tales suggested
She thought, her eyes lingering longest upon the young lord.
Such poise. Idore will want every detail… but I want more than information tonight.
She paused first near a group of lesser nobles, exchanging pleasantries in her lilting accent, all the while casting sidelong glances toward the high table. When the moment felt ripe, she approached with bold grace, her voice low and honeyed, carrying just enough to reach those nearest.
“May I accompany thee this evening… and perhaps beyond, my lord?” she purred, her fingers brushing lightly against Serenoa’s sleeve.
The words struck like a lance. Serenoa’s composure faltered for the briefest instant. Here, before his father Symon, before Benedict, Erador, and the gathered advisors.
Such brazenness in an open court!
Heat rose to his cheeks, though he fought it down with the discipline of one trained in both sword and statecraft.
“I… shall have to ponder thy offer with care,” he replied, choosing his words with measured caution. His voice remained steady, yet the slight hesitation betrayed him.
Before any further exchange could unfold, Serenoa excused himself with a courteous nod and withdrew to another table, striking up conversation with a noble from Glenbrook. He dared not let his closest allies witness the flush that had claimed his face.
I am lord of this house, such idle flirtations must not unman me, least of all before Father.
Milo withdrew with a knowing smile, gliding instead toward a lesser noble to bide her time.
He resists, yet the crack is there. Perfect.
She watched him from afar, noting how he commanded respect with every measured word and gesture. After a time, she drifted nearer once more, lingering at the edge of a cluster of merchants who spoke of trade routes reopened by the victory. “The sands of Hyzante bring salt aplenty,” she remarked lightly to one, her gaze flicking toward Serenoa. “Yet even that pales beside the strength of men who bend the winds of war to their favor.”
And I will bend that strength to my will tonight.
Later, as the feast continued, Milo found another opportunity. She approached Serenoa again while he stood apart for a moment, replenishing his goblet. “Forgive my forwardness earlier, my lord,” she said softly, her tone demure yet laced with promise. “In Hyzante, we speak plainly of desires. But I see Glenbrook values… restraint. Tell me, does a lord such as thee never weary of bearing every burden alone?”
Serenoa offered a polite but guarded smile. “A lord’s path is one of duty, Lady Milo. Weariness is a luxury few can afford.”
She tilted her head, eyes sparkling. “Even conquerors must rest. Perhaps I might ease such a burden… if only for an evening.”
Meanwhile, Benedict approached old Symon, who sat propped in a sturdy chair, his frame weakened yet his spirit undimmed. “That Hyzantian’s innuendo hath pierced the young lord’s armor, my lord,” Benedict observed dryly, adjusting his spectacles.
Symon let out a hearty laugh, though it quickly turned to a fit of coughing that drew concerned glances from nearby guests. He waved a hand to dismiss their worry. “Why should it not? His fair Frederica is absent, and here comes this desert rose offering to grace his arm. The blood runs hot in youth, Benedict. Let him have his moment of fluster.”
Serenoa soon rose to address the assembly. The hall fell into respectful silence as he lifted his goblet high.
“Good friends, loyal vassals, and honored guests,” he began, his voice ringing clear and true. “I bid ye all raise thy cups. To a brighter morrow, and to the improved health of my father, whose wisdom, imparted to me, hath guided us through these shadowed days. Danger and woe have beset us, yet we have reclaimed Glenbrook from Aesfrost’s grasp. If providence smiles upon our path, this war may yet be stayed, and the realm spared another Saltiron tragedy. But let us speak no more of strife this night. Partake of the peace within these walls, and of the hospitality House Wolffort extends to all.”
Glasses rose as one. A chorus of cheers filled the hall: “To Lord Serenoa!” “To House Wolffort!” “To peace!”
Serenoa’s gaze swept the room. He saw Benedict’s subtle nod of approval, Symon’s proud though weary smile, Erador’s broad grin, and even Anna’s rare expression of satisfaction. Yet he did not notice Milo in the shadows, her lips curved in a private smirk.
He commands the room as naturally as breathing
She thought, a thrill coursing through her.
Just as tales of his father foretold. Such strength… I know my course now. He will be mine before the night ends.
Time passed in a blur of obligations. Serenoa moved among the guests, exchanging pleasantries with merchants seeking favor and nobles reaffirming alliances. He spoke at length with a delegation from the Roselle about future protections. Later, he drew Erador aside near one of the great hearths, the two men sharing a quiet word over tankards of ale.
“Erador, the border patrols must remain vigilant,” Serenoa said, his voice low but firm. “Though we celebrate tonight, Aesfrost may yet test our resolve again. Double the watches along the northern roads for the next fortnight.”
Erador clapped a heavy hand on Serenoa’s shoulder, his broad grin unwavering. “Aye, my lord. Ye worry too much on a night like this! The men are in high spirits after such a victory. But ye have the right of it—better a cautious blade than a dull one. I’ll see it done at first light. Now, come! Have another drink with yer old friend before duty claims ye again!”
Serenoa managed a small smile. “One more, then. But only because I trust no other to keep the watch as well as thee.”
When at last he stepped away from his father’s side, leaving Benedict and Erador to attend Symon, Milo saw her opening.
She approached with deliberate steps, her arm slipping through his as he conversed with a portly trader. “Serenoa,” she murmured teasingly into his ear, her breath warm against his skin. “I must speak with thee of weighty matters concerning Hyzante.”
He stiffened, acutely aware of her closeness. “I am but one of the Saintly Seven’s number in this alliance. What tidings do they entrust to me?”
“Not here, where prying ears may linger,” she replied, voice laced with invitation. “Thy chambers, where might they lie?”
“Above stairs,” he answered, a note of hesitation creeping in. “Yet this had best prove of true import. I would not leave my father unattended for trifles.”
“Thy father is a man of stout heart and stronger will,” Milo soothed, her fingers tracing a light circle on his arm. “He shall fare well enough in the company of his trusted retainers. Come. Let us speak where none may interrupt.”
Hook set. Now to reel him in slowly.
Reluctantly, yet unable to bring himself to rebuff her publicly, Serenoa allowed her to lead him toward the staircase. Her arm remained entwined with his, a scandalous familiarity that thankfully went unnoticed amid the festivities.
Only a few moments, then I shall return. This is mere diplomacy.
Upon reaching his private chambers, Serenoa gently disentangled himself. Milo offered a soft pout, her full lips curving in mock disappointment, before he turned to face her fully. The heavy oak door clicked shut behind them, sealing the room in relative quietness broken only by the distant murmur of the feast below.
“What message do the Saintly Seven wish me to receive?” he asked directly, striving to maintain his lordly composure as he moved toward the center of the room.
Stay focused. This must be about the alliance.
Milo did not answer at once. Instead, she circled him slowly, her hips swaying with practiced grace, the remaining silks of her garb whispering against her skin.
Look at him, rigid with duty even now. How delicious it will be to make him unravel.
She let the silence stretch, her dark eyes drinking in his form from every angle. “The Saintly Seven sent no urgent missive this night, my lord,” she confessed at last, her voice a low, velvet murmur. “It was I who craved this private audience.”
Serenoa went very still. “You deceived me.”
“I invited you.” She stepped closer. “There is a difference, though I understand why a man of honor might not see it.”
“This is improper.” His voice hardened. “You have brought me here under false pretenses, and I will not—”
“Thy presence on the field of battle… the way thou dost command men and bend fate to thy will…” She continued as if he hadn’t spoken, her voice dropping to something almost reverent. “It has haunted my thoughts since first I laid eyes upon thee.”
“Lady Milo—”
“Tell me true, Lord Wolffort.” She stepped close enough that the heat of her body brushed against him. One slender hand rose, pausing a breath from his jaw without touching. “Doth the fair Frederica truly match thy vision for the future? I have watched her. She burns bright with idealism, yet she stands against thy pragmatic wisdom time and again. A true consort should lift thee, not weigh thee down with opposition.”
The words struck at hidden doubts he had buried deep. Serenoa’s jaw tightened. “Lady Frederica is loyal. She has fought by my side through iron and salt! I will not hear her disparaged.”
“Loyalty is commendable.” Her hand finally made contact, fingertips grazing his jawline with devastating gentleness. “Yet a lord of thy caliber deserves more. He deserves a woman who sees his strength and yields to it gladly. Not one who meets every decision with argument and resistance.”
“Frederica’s counsel makes me a better lord. Her challenges sharpen my thinking.”
“Does it?” Milo’s dark eyes searched his face. “Or does it exhaust you? Does it wear at your spirit until you dread every council where you must defend choices she should support without question?”
Serenoa’s breath caught.
How does she know the weariness I have never spoken aloud?
“I see it,” Milo whispered, “I see the exhaustion behind your eyes. The longing for someone who simply… trusts. Who yields not from weakness but from understanding that a lord must sometimes act without endless debate.”
Her fingers traced down the column of his throat, “I would be that woman, Serenoa. I would obey thy every command, warm thy bed, whisper counsel that aligns with thy will. No more needless arguments. Only unity… and pleasure.”
“This is—” He swallowed hard. “You speak of things that cannot be.”
“Why?” She pressed closer, her body now flush against his, soft curves molding to the hard planes of his chest. “Because of vows? Because of propriety? Or because you fear that surrendering to desire, even once, might reveal that you are human after all?”
“Because I am promised to another.” But his hands had risen to her waist, as if to push her away, and yet they remained there, fingers curving against the silk. “Because my word is my bond.”
“And does she appreciate that bond?” Milo’s lips brushed the corner of his jaw. “Does she reward your fidelity with peace, or with fresh demands?”
Breathe. Think. This is manipulation dressed in silk.
“You twist things,” he managed. “You paint Frederica’s passion as flaw when it is her greatest strength.”
“Perhaps.” Milo drew back just enough to meet his eyes. Her own were dark pools, unreadable. “Then answer me this, my lord, why are your hands still on my waist?”
Serenoa looked down. His fingers were indeed curved around the swell of her hips, thumbs pressing into the silk as if they had a will of their own. He released her as though burned.
“You should leave.”
“Should I?” She didn’t move. “Is that what you truly want? Or what you believe you should want?”
“They are the same thing.”
“No.” She shook her head slowly. “They rarely are. The question is which one you will honor tonight. Your desire, or your obligations?”
Serenoa stood frozen, caught between duty and the thrumming pulse of temptation.
Frederica. Think of Frederica. Her fire, her conviction, the way she looks at you with such unwavering trust.
But Frederica was far away, and Milo was here, clouding his thoughts, her dark eyes promising pleasures he had denied himself for too long.
“One night,” Milo breathed, closing the distance again. Her body pressed against his, warm and yielding. “One night where you do not have to be the lord, the commander, the heir. One night where you are simply a man, and I am simply a woman who desires him.”
Her hands rose to cup his face. “Can you truly say you do not want that?”
“I…” The word died in his throat.
“Tell me to leave,” she whispered, her lips a whisper from his. “Tell me you feel nothing, and I will go. I will never speak of this again. But you must mean it, Serenoa. You must look me in the eyes and tell me you do not wonder what it would be like to let go.”
He opened his mouth.
No sound came.
Milo smiled, not triumphant, but tender, as if she understood the war raging behind his eyes. “Then let me ease your burdens,” she murmured. “Just for tonight.”
“This is wrong.” But his voice had gone hoarse. “Frederica…”
“Is not here.” Milo’s thumb traced his lower lip. “And I ask nothing of tomorrow. No promises. No expectations beyond this moment.” She pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Tell me to leave. One word, and I am gone.”
His hands found her waist again. This time, he did not push her away.
“I should,” he breathed.
“But you won’t.”
She kissed him.
It was gentle at first, her lips soft and patient against his. Serenoa remained rigid for one heartbeat, two, three. Then something gave way inside him. His hands tightened on her waist, pulling her closer, and he kissed her back with a hunger that surprised them both.
Milo made a soft sound of approval, her fingers sliding into his hair. “There,” she whispered against his mouth. “Was that so difficult?”
“This changes nothing,” he said, even as his lips chased hers.
“Of course not.” She kissed him again, deeper this time, her tongue tracing the seam of his lips until he opened for her. “Tonight exists outside of everything. A dream that leaves no trace upon waking.”
Her hands slid down his chest, finding the clasps of his formal tunic. She worked them open with practiced ease, her mouth never leaving his. “Let me see you,” she breathed between kisses. “The man beneath the title.”
Serenoa caught her wrists. Held them. “If we do this… there are limits.”
“Name them.”
“No—” He struggled for the words. “Nothing that cannot be undone. Nothing that would leave… lasting consequence.”
Milo’s smile was knowing. “You fear leaving a child in my belly and a scandal in your court.”
His silence was confirmation enough.
“Then we shall be careful.” She pressed a reassuring kiss to his jaw. “I have no desire to trap a lord, only to pleasure one. Trust that my own self-interest aligns with your caution.”
She freed her wrists from his grip with gentle persistence and returned to her work on his tunic. The fabric fell open, revealing the hard lines of his chest, the scars earned in battles past. Her fingers traced them with reverence.
“Beautiful,” she murmured. “A warrior’s body. A lord’s bearing.” She leaned in and pressed her lips to the hollow of his throat. “Let me worship it.”
Serenoa’s hands found her hips again, gripping hard enough to ground himself.
This is madness. This is betrayal.
But her mouth was tracing a path down his chest, and his thoughts scattered like leaves before a gale.
“You think too loudly,” Milo said, looking up at him with amusement. “I can hear your guilt from here.”
“It is not—”
“Hush.” She pressed a finger to his lips. “I told you, tonight exists outside of time. Tomorrow you may confess, repent, punish yourself however you see fit. But right now, in this moment, there is only us.”
She stepped back, and his hands fell away from her hips. He watched, breath shallow, as she reached for the ties of her own garb. The silk whispered as she loosened them, and the fabric parted to reveal the golden curve of her shoulders, the swell of her breasts still partially veiled.
“In Hyzante,” she said, her voice dropping to something intimate, “we believe the body is a temple. Not to be hidden in shame, but celebrated. Adorned. Shared with those worthy of its beauty.”
The silk slipped further. Her breasts were full and round, dusky nipples peaked in the cool air of the chamber. Serenoa’s mouth went dry.
“You look at me as though you have never seen a woman before,” she teased.
“I have never seen you.”
The words slipped out before he could stop them, honest, unguarded. Milo’s expression softened, the playful seductress giving way to something more genuine.
“Come here,” she said, extending her hand.
He took it. She guided him to the edge of the great oak desk, pressing him back until he sat upon it, then stepped between his thighs. Her bare breasts were level with his face now, and she cupped the back of his head, drawing him close.
“Touch me,” she whispered. “Not as a lord touching a spy, or a man touching a stranger. Touch me as though we are the only two people in the world.”
His hands rose. Settled on the curve of her waist. The skin was impossibly soft, warm as sun-baked sand. He traced upward slowly, feeling her ribs expand with each breath, until his thumbs brushed the undersides of her breasts.
Milo sighed, arching into his touch. “Yes. Like that.”
He cupped her fully then, kneading gently, marveling at the weight and warmth of her. His thumbs found her nipples, circling, and she gasped, a small, breathy sound that went straight to his groin.
“You are more skilled than you pretend,” she murmured, her fingers tightening in his hair.
“I am out of practice.”
“Then let us practice together.”
She guided his mouth to her breast. He took the nipple between his lips, flicking his tongue across the stiff peak, and Milo’s head fell back with a moan that seemed to rise from somewhere deep within her.
“Serenoa…” His name on her lips was a caress. “Yes. Just like that. Let yourself feel.”
He switched to her other breast, suckling with increasing confidence, and her hips began to rock against him in a slow, instinctual rhythm. Through his breeches, he could feel the heat of her core pressing against his thigh, and the evidence of his own arousal straining against the fabric.
Milo noticed. Her hand slid down between their bodies, palm pressing flat against the bulge in his breeches. “So strong,” she breathed. “And so restrained. When was the last time someone truly tended to your needs, my lord?”
“I cannot say.”
“Then let me be the one.” She stroked him through the fabric, slow and deliberate. “Let me give you what you have denied yourself.”
Her fingers found the ties of his breeches, dark eyes lifted to meet his.
“Do you want this?”
The question was genuine, not a seduction, but a true request for consent. In her eyes he saw patience, willingness to stop, even now.
This is the moment. I can still choose honor.
His hand covered hers.
“Yes.”
Milo smiled and pressed a kiss to his forehead, almost maternal in its tenderness. “Then let me take care of you.”
She loosened the ties and freed him from the confines of fabric. Her fingers wrapped around his length, stroking with feather-light pressure that made him gasp and grip the edge of the desk.
“Beautiful,” she breathed, echoing her earlier words. “Truly. A body made for conquest.”
She dropped to her knees before him, silks pooling around her like fallen petals.
Milo’s breath ghosted warm across his exposed flesh, her dark eyes lifting to hold his gaze one last time before she lowered her head. The first touch of her tongue was a slow, deliberate stripe from base to tip that made Serenoa’s spine arch and his fingers white-knuckle the edge of the desk.
“Gods,” he breathed, the oath slipping out unbidden.
She hummed against him, the vibration traveling through his nerves like lightning, then took him into her mouth with a wet, enveloping heat that drove rational thought from his skull. Her lips sealed around his shaft and she sank lower, tongue fluttering along the underside, until he felt himself bump against the back of her throat.
Serenoa’s head fell back, throat working as she withdrew with agonizing slowness, her cheeks hollowing with suction. The sight of her, kneeling in her disheveled silks, lips stretched around him, eyes half-lidded with evident pleasure, struck him like a physical blow. This was not the composed lord who had fought battles a few days prior.
This was a man undone.
“You need not hold back,” Milo murmured, her breath hot against his slick skin. “I can take more.”
To prove her point, she descended again, deeper this time, her throat relaxing around him until her nose pressed against the dark hair at his base. She held there, swallowing, and the constriction made him groan loud enough that he clamped his own hand over his mouth, remembering belatedly where they were.
She pulled back with a wicked smile, saliva glistening on her lips. “Worried someone will hear? Let them. Let them know their lord is a man of flesh and appetite like any other.”
“Milo—” Her name came out ragged.
“Yes?” She stroked him with one hand while her tongue traced lazy circles around the sensitive crown. “Tell me what you want, Serenoa. I have told you I will obey.”
He should push her away. Should apologize, dress, flee back to the feast and the safety of duty. Instead, his free hand found the back of her head, fingers tangling in her dark hair, not forcing, but merely guiding.
“More,” he groaned out, the word torn from somewhere primal. “Please.”
“As my lord commands.”
She set a rhythm then, bobbing her head with practiced grace, her hand working the length she could not take, her other hand cupping and rolling the weight of his sac with gentle pressure. Serenoa’s hips began to move in small, helpless thrusts, meeting her descent, and she moaned around him, the sound vibrating through his core, telling him without words that she enjoyed this service as much as he enjoyed receiving it.
The tension built swiftly, coiling tight in his belly. “I am close,” he warned, voice strained. “You should—”
She only doubled her efforts, hollowing her cheeks, her tongue working furiously. Her dark eyes locked with his, demanding he watch as she brought him to ruin.
Serenoa bit down on his own knuckle to muffle the cry as release crashed through him. Milo took it all, swallowing around him with throaty sounds of satisfaction, her hands gripping his thighs to steady herself as he spent in long, shuddering pulses. When she finally drew back, lips swollen and glistening, she pressed reverent kisses to his hip, his thigh, his trembling hand.
“There,” she whispered, resting her cheek against his knee. “Does the world feel lighter, my lord?”
Serenoa stared down at her, chest heaving, mind scattered to the winds. He had expected shame to crash over him immediately, but instead he felt only a languid warmth, a loosening of knots that had bound him for months. His hand found her hair again, stroking with a tenderness that surprised them both.
“You are dangerous,” he said quietly.
“Only to your peace of mind.” She rose smoothly, her silks whispering against his legs, and pressed herself against him where he still sat upon the desk. “And we are not finished.”
She kissed him, and he tasted himself on her tongue, an intimacy that should have repulsed him but instead sent fresh heat stirring in his loins. Her hands pushed his open tunic and fur coat from his shoulders, and he let her strip it away, leaving him bare from the waist up. Then she was guiding his hands to the remaining ties of her own garments.
“Your turn,” she said against his mouth. “I would feel your hands everywhere.”
The silk parted easily beneath his fingers. He pushed the fabric from her shoulders, letting it cascade down her body to pool at her feet. She stood before him now in nothing but the golden light of the chamber, her skin dusky and flawless, curves that begged for touch.
Serenoa’s hands spanned her waist, thumbs tracing the hollows of her hips. “You are…” He searched for words adequate and found none. “Exquisite.”
“Flatterer.” But she preened under his gaze, arching her back to present her breasts to his waiting hands. “Touch me, my lord. I have waited so long.”
He pulled her between his thighs, his mouth finding her breast again while his hands mapped the territory of her body, down her back, over the swell of her hips, between her thighs where he found her already slick and ready. Milo gasped, gripping his shoulders as his fingers explored her folds with tentative curiosity.
“Like this?” He circled a spot that made her cry out and clutch at him.
“Yes! There! Oh! Serenoa…” She rocked against his hand, her nails scoring his shoulders. “You learn quickly.”
He stroked her with increasing confidence, watching her face transform with pleasure, the way her lips parted and her eyes fluttered shut. Two of his fingers slid into her tight heat, and her inner muscles clamped around him, drawing a ragged moan from her throat.
“Inside me,” she begged, her hips rolling to meet his thrusting fingers. “Please, I need you inside. Your fingers are divine but I want all of you.”
He should hesitate. Should consider the consequences, the risks, the betrayal of vows spoken to another. But she was warm and willing in his arms, her body singing under his touch, and Frederica felt very far away indeed.
Serenoa lifted her onto the desk in his place, spreading her thighs wide. He stepped between them, gripping himself and guiding his renewed arousal to her entrance. The head of his cock slid through her folds, gathering her wetness, and they both groaned at the contact.
“Now,” Milo demanded, her legs wrapping around his waist to pull him closer. “Take me now, Serenoa. Make me yours for this night.”
He thrust forward in one smooth stroke, sheathing himself to the hilt in her welcoming heat. They froze there, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other’s air as her body adjusted to his intrusion.
“You feel…” He shuddered, gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. “I have no words.”
“Then move,” she whispered, biting his earlobe. “Let our bodies speak.”
He withdrew slowly, almost completely, then drove back in with a force that made the desk creak and her cry out in pleasure. He set a pace, deep, rolling thrusts that filled the room with the sound of skin meeting skin and breathless, desperate noises that neither could contain.
Milo met him eagerly, her heels digging into his lower back to urge him deeper, her hands roaming his chest, his shoulders, anywhere she could maintain contact. “Harder,” she urged, her voice breaking. “Do not treat me like glass, my lord. I will not break.”
Serenoa’s restraint snapped. He hooked her legs over his shoulders, changing the angle so that every thrust dragged against that sensitive spot inside her, and pounded into her with abandon. The lord was gone, only the man remained, desperate and hungry, taking what she offered with single-minded focus.
“Yes! Yes!” Milo’s head thrashed against the wood, her breasts bouncing with the force of his movements. “There! Right there! Serenoa!”
She came apart around him, her inner walls fluttering and clamping down in rhythmic pulses that dragged a groan from his chest. He watched her face transform, mouth open in a silent scream, back arching off the desk, fingers white where they gripped his arms. The sight of her undone by his efforts sent him racing toward his own peak.
He spilled inside her with a ragged shout, burying himself to the root and spending in hot, endless waves. Milo held him through it, her legs locking around his waist, her hands stroking through his sweat-damp hair, whispering praises in a language he did not know but understood perfectly.
They collapsed together onto the desk, a tangle of limbs and ragged breathing, the scent of sex and sweat heavy in the air. For long moments, neither moved, simply existing in the aftermath, her heartbeat thudding against his chest where they pressed together.
Serenoa’s mind began to clear, guilt creeping in at the edges like morning frost. “Milo…”
“Hush.” She pressed fingers to his lips. “Not yet. Do not ruin this with words of regret. Let me have this moment longer.”
He closed his eyes, holding her tighter, and allowed himself, just for now, to simply be held.
Unbeknownst to them both, soft footsteps had retreated down the corridor. Anna had heard more than enough.
Minutes later, Anna found Benedict and whispered urgently in his ear. His expression flickered with alarm before smoothing into calculated calm. He turned to Symon.
“My lord Symon, might we speak outside? I bear tidings concerning Hyzante that require discretion.”
Erador chuckled from his seat. “Benedict scheming again? Do not let him weary thee overmuch, my lord Symon.”
Symon rose with assistance, and the two men stepped into the cool night air. Benedict adjusted his glasses, his mind already turning over possibilities.
Before Anna could slip away, she caught the tail end of their low conversation. Symon’s voice was weary but steady: “If the Hyzantians seek to play their games within our halls, we must be ready. What is thy proposition, Benedict?”
Benedict leaned closer. “A subtle counter, my lord. We might use their own—”
Anna stepped forward then, her expression grave.
“I have a proposition regarding our friends from Hyzante…” Benedict continued smoothly, now including her in the circle.