The confectioner’s shop announced itself before Amor and Valdor reached the door, its open windows spilling the warm fragrances of caramelized sugar, baked fruit, and melted chocolate into the street. A painted sign shaped like a golden honeybee hung above the entrance, swaying gently whenever a carriage passed, while the front display presented rows of intricate desserts beneath glass domes. Tiny castles made from spun sugar stood beside flower-shaped cakes, jeweled fruit tarts, and delicate cream pastries that looked too beautiful to consume without apology.
Valdor stopped outside the window. Amor had taken three additional steps before realizing the warrior was no longer moving beside him. He turned and found Valdor staring through the glass with the focused intensity normally reserved for examining animal tracks or potential threats. The sight immediately restored some of the lighter mood disrupted by the attention in the square.
"Have you discovered a hostile pastry?"
Amor asked. Valdor pointed toward a display of translucent sugar swans floating upon a lake of blue gelatin.
"Are those food?"
"Technically."
"They look like glass."
"That is part of their appeal."
Valdor studied the swans more closely.
"Do they taste like glass?"
"One hopes not."
Amor guided him through the entrance before the warrior could begin tapping the window to test their construction. A bell chimed overhead, drawing the attention of several patrons seated at small marble tables along one wall. Conversation softened immediately as people recognized Amor and then noticed the enormous Blackstone warrior ducking beneath the gilded doorframe behind him. The shop’s proprietor emerged from behind the counter.
Madam Bellisa was a round, cheerful woman dressed in rose-colored silk, with powdered blond hair piled high beneath a confectioner’s cap decorated by artificial cherries. She had known Amor since childhood and possessed the unusual courage required to scold him whenever he attempted to purchase an entire seasonal display. Her face brightened until she saw Valdor fully enter, at which point her gaze traveled upward and continued traveling.
"Young Lord Amor!"
She greeted, recovering with admirable professionalism.
"It has been several weeks since you last visited!"
"I have been occupied."
"With the duke, I imagine..."
She said before noticing the warning within Amor’s pink eyes.
"Or perhaps not?"
"Very much not!"
Madam Bellisa nodded quickly and turned toward Valdor. Her unease lasted only until she noticed the warrior examining her display with genuine curiosity rather than disdain.
"And who is your companion?"
"This is Valdor Rhazien, son of High Chieftain Vervath and an honored guest of House Moons."
Valdor touched one fist to his chest.
"Your food looks strange."
The entire shop went still. Madam Bellisa blinked. Amor closed his eyes briefly.
"He means that it is unlike anything he has encountered before."
"It is shaped like birds."
Valdor clarified. The confectioner looked toward the sugar swans and then back to him.
"That particular display was commissioned for a noble engagement banquet."
"Why birds?"
"Swans represent devotion."
"They bite."
Amor lifted his fan over his mouth. Madam Bellisa stared for another moment before laughter burst from her with enough warmth to soften every anxious customer nearby.
"You are entirely correct, my lord. They are vicious creatures, though noble couples prefer the symbolism to their natural behavior."
Valdor nodded, satisfied that the contradiction had been acknowledged. Amor approached the counter and surveyed the morning selection.
"Prepare a tasting tray containing anything you believe might survive his judgment."
Madam Bellisa’s eyes gleamed with professional challenge.
"Sweet or savory?"
"Both..."
Amor answered.
"Although I suspect his idea of sweetness involves honey poured over something recently hunted."
"Honey is good."
Valdor said.
"You see?"
The confectioner moved with renewed purpose, selecting pastries from different trays while an assistant arranged tea and dark coffee at a nearby table. Amor led Valdor toward the largest seating area, though even its reinforced chair appeared narrow beside him. Valdor chose the floor cushion near Amor’s place instead, settling comfortably despite the curious looks from the other patrons.
Amor sat beside him rather than across the table. The first tray arrived moments later.
Madam Bellisa had chosen miniature cream horns, almond cakes, fruit-glazed buns, cocoa biscuits, sugared violets, and a confection consisting of whipped egg whites shaped into pink clouds. Valdor examined them all with grave suspicion. The desserts looked absurdly small beside his hands. Amor selected a cream horn and held it toward him.
"Begin with this."
Valdor looked at the pastry. Then he looked at Amor.
"You wish to feed me?"
Amor’s hand paused. The memory of dinner returned with embarrassing clarity, along with Valdor repeatedly lifting food toward his lips beneath the delighted observation of both fathers. Several nearby patrons were already watching them with poorly concealed interest. Amor refused to allow the audience to make him retreat.
"You fed me last night..."
He said.
"Consider this repayment."
Valdor leaned forward. Amor placed the cream horn carefully between his lips, though the pastry vanished in nearly one bite. Valdor chewed with the same concentration he gave unfamiliar terrain, analyzing texture, sweetness, and whatever other qualities Blackstone warriors considered before passing judgment. A small streak of cream remained near the scar upon his lower lip.
"Well?"
Amor asked.
"Soft."
"That is generally considered desirable in pastry."
"Too small."
Madam Bellisa, listening from behind the counter, immediately added four full-sized cream horns to another plate.
Amor reached toward Valdor’s mouth without considering the intimacy of the gesture. His thumb brushed away the streak of cream, lingering for one startled second against the warrior’s scarred lip. Valdor became completely still.
Their eyes met.
Amor withdrew his hand with careful dignity and looked toward the tray.
"You were wearing part of it."
"I would have removed it."
"Yes, well... I acted first!"
Valdor’s gaze dropped toward Amor’s thumb. Amor wiped the cream onto his napkin before the warrior’s attention could inspire another inexplicable blush.
"Try the almond cake next!"
Valdor obeyed. He found the cake acceptable, the cocoa biscuit too dry, and the pink cloud confection profoundly suspicious. When Amor explained that it would dissolve in his mouth, Valdor crushed it between two fingers to verify the claim. The entire sweet collapsed into sticky sugar against his skin.
"It dissolved..."
Amor remarked.
"Outside my mouth."
"You were supposed to eat it."
"You did not say before."
Madam Bellisa laughed so hard she needed to brace herself against the counter. The remaining patrons gradually relaxed as well, their fear of the intimidating Blackstone warrior giving way to fascination with the solemn manner in which he confronted decorative sweets. One elderly woman offered Valdor a sugared violet from her own plate, explaining that the entire flower could be eaten. He inspected it carefully before tasting it.
"Flowers should grow."
He said. The woman smiled.
"These were cultivated specifically for confectionery."
Valdor looked toward Amor. Amor understood the unspoken comparison to fireheart blooms.
"They are not taken from funeral ash, and the plants continue living after individual flowers are cut."
Valdor accepted this and ate another. Amor watched with growing delight as the warrior’s unfamiliarity transformed the shop from an ordinary indulgence into something newly entertaining. Valdor disliked several overly sweet confections but showed clear preference for pastries containing dark berries, toasted nuts, or honey. Whenever he approved of something, his expression barely changed, yet his hand returned to the same plate until nothing remained.
"You like the blackberry cakes?"
Amor observed.
"Yes."
"You ate six."
"They are small."
"You say that about everything here."
"They are all small."
Amor looked down at the elegant pastry resting between his fingers.
"Perhaps the problem lies with your scale of measurement."
Valdor’s gaze moved over Amor’s body.
"You are small."
Amor narrowed his eyes.
"Do not compare me to a pastry."
"You are also sweet."
Madam Bellisa dropped a pair of serving tongs. The metal clattered against the counter. Amor’s face heated instantly, though he continued holding the blackberry cake as if nothing had happened. Several patrons became intensely interested in their teacups. Valdor appeared unaware that his statement could be interpreted as anything other than an honest observation.
"You have not tasted me yet!"
Amor said before sense intervened. The shop became even quieter. Valdor’s obsidian eyes darkened. Amor realized what he had said. He placed the entire blackberry cake into his mouth to prevent further catastrophe.
Madam Bellisa turned away and pretended to reorganize a display that required no attention. The elderly woman nearby hid a delighted smile behind her napkin. Valdor continued watching Amor chew, his expression calm despite the heat that had entered his gaze. Amor swallowed carefully.
"We are leaving!"
He announced.
"You ordered another tray."
Madam Bellisa reminded him.
"Have it wrapped."
"For Lord Valdor?"
"For the carriage!"
Valdor rose from the floor, though his attention remained upon Amor. The warrior had learned enough about the young noble’s embarrassment to avoid repeating the dangerous comment, but the slight curve near his scarred mouth revealed he had understood more than Amor wished. Amor let his footman pay for several boxes of blackberry cakes, honey pastries, almond biscuits, and sugared violets with Lanslet’s personal card despite insisting earlier that he would not abuse it.
Madam Bellisa handed the parcels to the second footman summoned from the carriage. Before Amor departed, she leaned closer and lowered her voice.
"He is very different from the duke."
Amor’s smile faded slightly.
"Yes."
"He watches you kindly."
The observation settled more deeply than Amor expected. Madam Bellisa had witnessed several of his visits with Alphonsins, during which the duke usually waited near the door with visible impatience while Amor selected sweets. Valdor had spent the entire visit trying unfamiliar foods because Amor asked him to and watching every reaction upon Amor’s face as though pleasure itself deserved attention. The difference required no explanation.
"He does."
Amor said. They left the confectioner and continued toward the artisan quarter.
The streets grew more refined as they approached the district where tailors, jewelers, perfumers, and leatherworkers served the capital’s wealthiest families. Amor kept his arm linked with Valdor’s, guiding him between shops while explaining the specialty of each establishment. Valdor listened, though his gaze repeatedly returned to the parcel of blackberry cakes being carried behind them.
"You may have another later."
Amor said.
"I did not ask."
"You stared."
"I was guarding them."
"From whom?"
"Pigeons."
Amor laughed. The ease of the confectioner’s shop followed them until they reached a three-story building faced in pale blue stone and trimmed with silver. Mannequins stood within its enormous windows, dressed in formal coats, ceremonial robes, riding clothes, and ballroom ensembles detailed so exquisitely that even the buttons contained tiny gemstones. A discreet golden plaque beside the entrance identified the establishment as Maison Reverie, tailor to the royal family and half the highest nobility. Valdor looked through the window.
"Those clothes cannot hunt."
"They are not intended to hunt."
"Can they run?"
"Some."
"Fight?"
"That depends upon the wearer."
Valdor examined a fitted white coat embroidered with silver peacocks.
"It would tear."
"For you? Immediately..."
Amor admitted.
"But it would look beautiful beforehand."
The warrior seemed unconvinced. Amor guided him inside.
The shop’s atmosphere differed entirely from the confectioner’s warmth. Deep carpets softened every footstep, crystal lamps illuminated bolts of imported fabric, and attendants moved with the silent precision of performers following choreography. Clients spoke in lowered voices while tailors adjusted hems and displayed fabric samples upon polished tables.
Master Edric Reverie appeared from the upper gallery.
He was a tall, narrow man dressed entirely in black, with white peppered brown hair swept away from an angular face and a measuring ribbon worn around his neck like a ceremonial chain. His gaze found Amor first, brightening with professional affection, before shifting toward Valdor. The tailor stopped halfway down the staircase.
"Lord Amor!"
He said after recovering.
"You have brought me a challenge."
Valdor’s expression hardened slightly. Amor noticed.
"Ahem! He is not a challenge..."
Amor corrected.
"He is Valdor Rhazien, son of the Blackstone high chieftain, and I wish you to prepare several outfits appropriate for the capital."
Master Edric descended the remaining steps. His eyes moved over Valdor with the analytical focus of an artist confronting unprecedented proportions. He examined the breadth of the warrior’s shoulders, the extraordinary length of his arms, and the thick muscle visible beneath the furs. Unlike the disdainful observers outside, his reaction carried no mockery—only professional fascination bordering upon greed.
"I have never fitted a Blackstone warrior."
He said.
"You have fitted royal guards, haven’t you?"
Amor replied.
"Royal guards are ordinary men wearing disciplined expressions. This gentleman appears to have been assembled from three heroic statues and one very angry mountain."
Valdor looked toward Amor.
"Is that an insult?"
"From him, it’s worship."
Master Edric circled Valdor once. The warrior remained still, though the tailor’s inspection clearly irritated instincts accustomed to treating circling as predatory behavior. Amor placed one hand upon Valdor’s arm. The contact eased the tension immediately.
"I want clothing that respects his preferences..."
Amor said.
"Nothing stiff, restrictive, or so heavily embroidered that he cannot move freely."
"Movement can be accommodated."
"He should be able to fight."
Master Edric looked appalled.
"In my work?"
"Emergencies rarely consult the tailor."
Valdor nodded approvingly. The tailor sighed as though both men had conspired to wound him.
"Very well. Reinforced seams, flexible panels, and fabrics capable of surviving uncivilized activity."
"Do not call his activity uncivilized."
"I referred to fighting in formalwear."
"Then just say that. That’s acceptable."
Master Edric gestured toward several display tables and began selecting fabric. He chose dark wool, brushed leather, heavy silk, and a rare flexible weave used in military ceremonial uniforms. Amor rejected anything that would conceal Valdor completely, preferring designs that retained some of the warrior’s natural style rather than disguising him as an uncomfortable nobleman. Valdor watched the choices accumulate.
A dark fitted coat with an open chest would preserve his markings, while reinforced trousers and high boots would allow easier movement through aristocratic spaces. Amor added a sleeveless formal vest, a long winter cloak lined with soft fur, and several lighter tunics suitable for travel. Each item cost enough to support a village for months.
"You choose many."
Valdor observed.
"You require options."
"I have clothes."
"You have furs."
"Furs are clothes."
"They are extremely compelling clothes..."
Amor conceded.
"But certain establishments may refuse entry if too much of you remains uncovered."
Valdor glanced toward the clients inside the shop. Every man wore several layers despite the warmth, their collars high and wrists concealed beneath cuffs. Even servants possessed more fabric than Valdor carried upon his entire body. The difference returned sharply.
"I must cover the markings...."
He said. Amor looked at him.
"No."
Master Edric paused with a bolt of charcoal fabric.
"The designs should frame them..."
Amor continued.
"Not hide them."
Valdor’s gaze sharpened. Amor touched one black line crossing his forearm.
"These represent your life, family, and promises. I will not ask you to conceal them merely because kingdom nobles lack the manners to stop staring."
Something within Valdor eased. Master Edric’s professional instincts awakened.
"The markings could become the foundation of the tailoring! Dark fabrics near the edges, open structure through the chest and arms, perhaps embroidery echoing the geometric patterns without copying sacred designs."
Valdor looked toward him with greater approval.
"You will not copy marks you have not earned?"
"Never..."
The tailor answered.
"A design may honor without stealing."
The response appeared to satisfy him. Master Edric summoned several assistants and began arranging measurements. The ordinary fitting platform proved laughably inadequate, barely wide enough for both of Valdor’s feet, while the private measuring chambers possessed ceilings and narrow entrances poorly suited to his body. After several failed attempts to determine how he might turn without demolishing a screen, the tailor decided to use the open workroom behind the main salon.
"It is spacious and private from the main room..."
Master Edric explained.
"Only staff will enter."
Amor nodded.
"Go ahead, I’ll wait here..."
Valdor’s eyes moved toward him. The warrior clearly disliked leaving him alone in an unfamiliar room, even though the shop contained attendants, respectable clients, and two House Moons footmen waiting near the entrance ready to pay for anything Amor pointed at. Amor squeezed his forearm reassuringly.
"I will survive several minutes without you."
Valdor looked unconvinced.
"No riffraff are permitted inside Maison Reverie."
Master Edric added. Amor smiled.
"You see?"
"They permit peacocks."
Valdor replied, glancing toward the embroidered coat.
"Only dead ones stitched in silver."
The warrior reluctantly followed Master Edric through the rear doors. Amor watched him go.
Several assistants carried bolts of fabric after them, along with an assortment of measuring ribbons that looked absurdly delicate compared with the body they intended to encircle. The doors closed, leaving Amor within the front salon surrounded by mannequins, mirrors, and the low conversation of clients. The sudden absence of Valdor’s warmth beside him felt more noticeable than it should have. An attendant brought tea.
Amor accepted and moved toward a velvet chair near the fitting mirrors. He spent several minutes reviewing sketches Master Edric had left behind, adjusting collars, sleeve lengths, and the position of open panels with a charcoal pencil. The work absorbed him enough that he did not immediately notice the front doors opening again.
A familiar voice broke the quiet.
"Celestine, this tailor supplies the royal household. You need not worry about the cost."
Amor’s hand stopped.
His stomach tightened. He lifted his gaze slowly.
Alphonsins Solaris entered the salon with Celestine beside him.
The duke wore a dark blue military coat despite having no official duties that morning, his broad shoulders marked by silver insignia and his silver hair arranged with severe precision. Celestine appeared much softer beside him, dressed in a pale green day gown that complemented her warm brown hair and gentle features. She held a small parcel of fabric samples against her chest while looking around the shop with cautious wonder. Amor stared.
He had always known they would find one another. Their meeting within the palace gardens had occurred as the novel intended, and once Amor removed himself from Alphonsins’s path, the male lead and heroine should have begun forming the friendship destined to become love. Seeing them together did not wound him. If anything, it confirmed that his attempt to escape the plot had succeeded. What disturbed him was the location.
Why here?
Why now?
The capital contained hundreds of shops, dozens of prestigious tailors, and enough commercial districts to prevent any reasonable encounter. Amor had deliberately chosen Maison Reverie because he trusted Master Edric and wanted Valdor treated respectfully. The probability of Alphonsins arriving during the brief moment Valdor disappeared into the workroom felt less like coincidence and more like the novel forcing its abandoned pieces back into place. Amor’s pulse quickened.
Was his role truly over?
He had ended the relationship, returned every possession, and made no attempt to interfere with the heroine. The hateful villain should have vanished from their romance, allowing Celestine to heal Alphonsins’s wounded self while Amor pursued a safe, luxurious life far from the main plot. Yet here they stood, occupying the same room as though the story refused to continue without placing him between them.
He did not want this. He did not want to insult Celestine, provoke Alphonsins, or become the obstacle their love required defeating. He especially did not want trouble during what he refused to call a date despite privately treating it exactly like one. Valdor would return soon, and Amor wanted the day to remain theirs.
’Maybe they won’t notice me.’
Amor lowered his gaze toward the sketches and angled his body behind a tall mannequin dressed in ceremonial robes. The concealment was inadequate, particularly when his lavender hair spilled across the chair and his moonstone earrings caught the light. Still, he silently urged Alphonsins to continue toward the upper fitting rooms without looking in his direction.
Celestine noticed first. Her steps slowed.
Amor saw recognition enter her expression, followed by uncertainty. She glanced toward Alphonsins as though deciding whether to mention his former lover’s presence. The hesitation drew the duke’s attention toward her.
"What is it?"
He asked. Celestine looked toward Amor. Alphonsins followed her gaze.
Their eyes met. Amor’s silent prayer died.
The duke’s face changed immediately. Surprise hardened into suspicion, then sharpened into the cold contempt he had often directed toward Amor whenever affection became inconvenient. His gaze swept across Amor’s carefully chosen clothes, the tea beside him, and the fitting sketches spread across the table. He did not ask why Amor was there. He decided.
"So..."
Alphonsins said.
"You finally grew tired of hiding..."
Every conversation in the salon quieted. Amor remained seated. He could feel the attention of clients, attendants, and the footmen shifting toward the brewing confrontation, though no one dared intervene before a duke. Celestine’s expression tightened with discomfort. Alphonsins stepped closer.
"I wondered how long your little performance would last..."
He continued.
"Returning my belongings, refusing to send letters, and pretending you no longer cared. Four days appears to be the limit of your restraint..."
Amor looked at him without expression. He wanted the duke to exhaust himself quickly.
Perhaps if he remained silent, Alphonsins would deliver whatever accusations the plot demanded and leave with Celestine before Valdor returned. Responding would only provide material for another argument. Amor folded his hands upon his lap and waited. Alphonsins mistook composure for guilt.
"You followed me!"
He said. Celestine looked toward him.
"Your Grace, perhaps Lord Amor was already—"
"He knew I would be here!"
Amor nearly laughed. He had not known Alphonsins visited tailors without being dragged by servants, much less possessed access to his morning schedule. The duke’s certainty was so thoroughly self-centered that denial seemed almost pointless. Amor remained silent. Alphonsins’s mouth curled.
"I suppose you saw me with Lady Celestine and could not tolerate it."
The heroine’s cheeks colored, though embarrassment rather than romantic pleasure caused it. She shifted uneasily beside him, clearly wishing the private nature of their budding friendship had not been announced before strangers. Amor felt a flicker of sympathy for her.
"You were always jealous..."
Alphonsins continued.
"Possessive, vindictive, and incapable of allowing anyone near me without creating scandal. Did you imagine ending our relationship would prevent me from speaking to whoever I wished?"
Amor’s fingers tightened beneath his sleeves. The hypocrisy would have been astonishing if he had not already learned how thoroughly Alphonsins interpreted every event through his own wounded pride. Amor had ended the relationship specifically so the duke could pursue Celestine freely, yet Alphonsins now accused him of objecting to the very freedom he demanded. Arguing against such logic would be like debating a mirror convinced every reflection belonged to it.
"I have said nothing."
Amor replied at last.
"Because you were caught before you could begin."
"You entered the shop after me."
"You arranged to be seen."
Amor inhaled slowly. His thoughts moved toward Valdor behind the closed workroom doors. The warrior might already hear the raised voices, and the possibility sharpened Amor’s anxiety. Valdor knew someone had bruised his wrist but not who, and Alphonsins’s entitled anger would reveal too much if allowed to continue. Amor wanted the duke gone.
"Believe whatever allows you to finish quickly..."
He said.
"I’m occupied."
Alphonsins’s eyes narrowed. The dismissal struck harder than any insult.
For months, the original Amor had oriented his entire existence around him, chasing every glance and reacting to every cold word. Indifference now appeared so unnatural to Alphonsins that he interpreted it as another strategy. His anger deepened.
"Do not pretend you have moved on..."
He said.
"You spent months forcing yourself into my life!"
Celestine touched his sleeve gently.
"Your Grace, perhaps this is not the place."
Alphonsins barely noticed.
"You think silence makes you dignified?"
He demanded.
"Everyone here knows what you are..."
The clients lowered their eyes. Amor remained still.
He had inherited the original Amor’s reputation and understood that many people would believe whatever the duke claimed. Defending himself publicly might satisfy pride but risked dragging Celestine into a scene she had not created. The heroine deserved better than becoming a weapon in a conflict between former lovers. Alphonsins mistook restraint for weakness again.
"You are free to throw away your family’s money chasing me..."
He continued, his voice carrying through the salon.
"Purchase every tailor, jewel, and estate in the capital if it amuses you. I will not return to your side, even if you beg."
Amor looked toward the ceiling.
’Valdor, please remain in the back for another minute.’
He thought.
"I would not take you back if you offered House Moons itself!"
Alphonsins said.
"Your wealth cannot purchase affection, and your beauty cannot disguise the rot beneath it."
’That one hurt.’
Not because Amor desired the duke’s affection, but because the words struck too closely at the fear that had followed him since becoming Amor. He inhabited the body and reputation of someone written to be hated, and perhaps no amount of changed behavior would allow him to escape that role. The world might always search for rot beneath him because the novel had promised it would be there.
His expression did not change. He would not give Alphonsins the satisfaction. The duke stepped nearer.
"Were you planning to cause a scene when you saw Lady Celestine?"
"No!"
Amor said.
"You expect anyone to believe that?"
"I expect nothing from you."
The coldness in his voice finally unsettled Alphonsins. For the first time, uncertainty entered the duke’s face. This Amor did not plead, rage, threaten, or attempt to prove himself superior to Celestine. He simply looked tired of the conversation. Alphonsins’s anger sharpened in response.
"You cannot erase what you did by playing indifferent..."
He said.
"You will always be the man who humiliated himself for me."
Amor’s gaze flickered toward Celestine. The heroine looked mortified. She appeared ready to speak again, perhaps to defend Amor despite barely knowing him, but Alphonsins stepped in front of her before she could. His expression arranged itself into another sneer, determined to deliver a final wound strong enough to break the composure he could no longer understand.
The rear workroom doors opened. Everyone turned.
Valdor stepped into the salon.
He wore only a pair of temporary ill-fitting trousers. The garment had clearly been selected from the largest stock available, yet it remained disastrously inadequate for his proportions. Dark fabric stretched tightly across his immense thighs and powerful hips, the seams strained to their limit while the waistband sat dangerously low beneath the defined ridges of his abdomen. The trousers stopped several inches above his ankles, making the already enormous warrior appear as though he had borrowed clothing from a substantially smaller man.
His chest remained bare. Every black tribal marking stood exposed beneath the crystal lamps, spreading over shoulders broad enough to nearly fill the doorway. Dense muscle shifted across his torso as he moved, the sharp divisions of his abdomen descending toward the low waistband, while the heavy masculine shape restrained beneath the ill-fitting fabric left little doubt that the tailoring problem extended well beyond length and width. Several attendants behind him appeared flushed and exhausted from the measurement process.
Valdor held a ripped shirt in one hand. Master Edric stood behind him with a measuring ribbon clutched like a weapon and the haunted expression of an artist whose materials had betrayed him.
"The shoulder seam failed."
No one answered. The entire salon had fallen silent. Valdor’s obsidian eyes moved across the room. They passed over Celestine, paused upon Alphonsins, and then found Amor.
The warmth normally reserved for the delicate nobleman vanished when he saw the tension around Amor’s mouth, the rigid posture, and the faint pressure of fingers concealed beneath flowing sleeves. His gaze dropped toward Amor’s bandaged wrist. Then it returned to the duke standing far too close.
Something dangerous entered Valdor’s face. Alphonsins looked up at him. Since beginning his public attack, the duke now had nothing to say.