"Fo—forgive me, Your Grace… P—pardon my insolence."
Reynand stared daggers at Sir Federick, his fists clenched tight. He had been careful with his words, yet this was turning into a mess.
How could a rumour that still trapped within the royal walls, already reach the ears of these power-hungry knights?
A gentle stroke on his fist made him turn. Elara's small hand had wrapped around his. Their eyes met, and she gave him a soft smile before rising from her seat.
She cleared her throat, her cold, clammy fingers gripping the side of her dress. Every gaze in the hall snapped to her.
"Li—like the Marquess said, we should welcome Princess Trisha—" she faltered, her voice catching as her heartbeat thundered in her ears. She tried to steady her breath.
'You can do this, Elara. They're all watching. You're the Marchioness. Show them who holds the reins.'
