A Marriage of Swords
He was more complicated, and therefore, more dangerous.
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The royal gallery was an endless march of oil-painted vanity. Leigh, now clad in a demure lavender gown that felt like a personal betrayal, walked with the others, her ankle a muted throb with every step. She listened with half an ear as the curator droned on about conquests and treaties.
Adelaide clung to her side, having decided Leigh was a "tragic, quiet soul" in need of friendship.
"Isn't Prince Makil just so... intense?" she whispered, gazing at a portrait of a grim-faced king.