The air in the lower city carried a different kind of truth.It was not perfumed like the palace halls, nor softened by velvet and polished stone. It smelled of iron, smoke, sweat—of people who lived without pretense. Adrian had almost forgotten it. Or perhaps he had tried to.Yet as he stepped into the dimly lit corridor of Marcus’s quarters, something in his chest loosened in a way it never did within the castle walls.Marcus was exactly where he had always been.Leaning against the table, arms crossed, expression carved from equal parts irritation and relief. His dark eyes flicked over Adrian slowly, taking in every detail—the finer cloak, the cleaner cut of his hair, the subtle shift in posture that came from standing too long beside a throne.“You look expensive,” Marcus muttered.Adrian huffed softly, shutting the door behind him. “You look like you haven’t changed at all.”“That’s because I haven’t,” Marcus shot back. “Some of us don’t get plucked out of our lives and handed to
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