She watched in stunned silence as the once-proud Marquis crumbled before her eyes, begging for his life. The sight made her wonder what kind of king ruled this land, that even a man like Thornhowl could be reduced to such fear.
Her thoughts were interrupted as a familiar figure stepped forward—the same nobleman who had violated her earlier. He cleared his throat, as if relishing the moment. "Your Majesty, since the Marquis is no longer capable of fulfilling his duties, may I offer a suggestion?"
The king's golden gaze shifted, cold and uninterested. "And who are you?"
"I am Count Edric Greyfang, Your Majesty."
"I thought Count Greyfang was a scrawny old mutt," the king remarked, his voice flat, but with a hint of amusement at the insult.
"I'm his son, Your Majesty. The late Count Greyfang perished in the Wolfbane attack last month," Greyfang replied, his voice steady, though she detected a trace of bitterness in his tone.
"I see," the king said, narrowing his eyes slightly. "You were one of the unfortunates."
"Yes, Your Majesty," Greyfang confirmed, though his voice remained measured.
After a brief pause, Greyfang continued. "I propose we burn the former Grand Duke's manor and increase the guard in the area. Afterward, we can discuss who will succeed the Marquis."
"You just want to take my position, you scheming bastard!" Thornhowl spat, glaring at Greyfang with venomous rage.
The king, unfazed by the accusation, simply hummed with mild interest. "Burning the manor does seem the most feasible option."
"Your Majesty!" Thornhowl's voice cracked with desperation, but the king ignored him entirely, turning his attention to a younger man standing beside him.
"What do you say, newly appointed Grand Duke?" he asked, voice deceptively calm.
She dared to glance at the young man, who looked to be about her age, his expression unreadable, detached from the drama unfolding before him. "I have no use for the manor," he said coolly, his tone as indifferent as his expression. "Do what you will with it, Your Majesty."
"If you allow me, Your Majesty," Greyfang interjected smoothly, "I can instruct my men to burn the place immediately."
The king remained silent, though a flicker of annoyance crossed his face. His attention, once again, shifted elsewhere, and her heart lurched when she realised where his gaze had landed—on her.
The cold intensity of his golden eyes bore into her, making her skin prickle with fear. She immediately lowered her head, her body trembling under the weight of his attention.
"It seems," the king drawled, his voice laced with amusement and mockery, "we've been so engrossed in this tedious conversation that we've nearly forgotten about our guest."
She flinched at the sound of his voice, feeling every syllable cut through her.
"Your Majesty," a familiar voice interjected—it was Duke Wolfhart, the older nobleman who had first identified she spoke another language. "The girl is a Drachen. We believe she was captured by those human mercenaries, likely to be sold to a brothel," he explained, his tone matter-of-fact. "The young Grand Duke was the one who found her trying to escape."