'Casterian.'
Vitale looked up from where he had tucked his head on his folded arms, exhausted. It was truly absurd, his reaction to King Bozhidar. It was always visceral, his muscles bunching then relaxing, his pulse jumping to spread the burst of adrenaline released.
The presence of the imperial family did not elicit this, nor did the church Elders themselves. Just this Winterland king. This Mad King, or so they said.
'Here.'
With brows arched, the alchemist reached up to receive the stein. Still, he informed the man apprehensively, 'I don't-'
'Imbibe, yes.'
The royal Krov was tall and sturdy, like an oak, but in a way that one couldn't truly comprehend unless they were up close. Vitale supposed that was the nature of thick Krovic clothes, anyway. But now, he was in a simple tunic with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow, as if the castle wasn't at a stable 59 degrees Fahrenheit on a good day.
