After dinner, Lord Alekin's chancellor pointed at the King's arm. The man, Rebedina's uncle, was a hunched nobleman, chubby enough to look round, sharp-eyed, and slow-moving. Among the sea of polished courtiers, he was the only one respected despite his unsightly features. Why? Because he was more serpent than man. He knew everything, every crime, every buried secret of the nobles. The only soul he'd never dared to pry into was the King himself. Not that he didn't want to, but he dared not. Imagine seeing a dragon for the first time as its meal.
"Your Grace, have you been hurt?"
The question was unnecessary; the injury was visible. But concern wasn't what lurked beneath those words or shining eyes. And being blessed with Sunkiath's power, he could smell a great waft of pleasure in the air.
He bleeds, and they feast.
