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“I didn’t know they were coming. They didn’t send word.”

“Do they ever?”

I laugh to myself, shaking my head. Communication is undoubtedly a skill the gnomes could improve upon.

A moment later, Henrik steps up next to me. I turn, sensing it’s him from his familiar build, but my mouth goes dry when my eyes land on him. Gnomes forgotten, I blink at the duke marshal, my stomach suddenly fluttering.

Henrik wears a blood-red and black doublet, no doubt crafted by the royal dressmaker herself. Minda expertly tailored it to skim over his broad shoulders and carved biceps, tapering it into his trim, flat waist. His boots are also black, polished to a shine, as is his belt. Each buckle, button, and accent is made of polished silver that quietly proclaims his importance.

The ensemble is topped with a long, midnight cloak he wears pushed behind his shoulders so his royal scarlet pennant and golden medallion are visible, not dissimilar to the one Bartholomew’s father used to wear. His hair has been recently trimmed, and he just shaved. He smells good too. Dark, clean,tempting.

Henrik wears royal power just as easily as that cloak, like it’s always belonged on him, and he’s finally decided to don it.

A flush travels from my cheeks to my chest, and my stomach clenches as a delicious thought plays in my head:this man is mine.

He looks down at me, a bare smile crossing his lips as if he can read my mind. “You look beautiful,” he says quietly. “Your hair is pretty like that.”

“Is it?” I breathe, too enamored to care what we talk about. It’s taking great willpower not to drag Henrik into a dark, private corner.

He nods.

“You clean up nice yourself, soldier,” I say, letting a hint of wicked color my tone.

One of his eyebrows twitches, and his eyes darken marginally.

“I like your cloak,” I add playfully, fingering the fabric.

“Would you two pay attention?” Lawrence hisses.

With an amused tilt of his lips, Henrik obediently pulls his eyes from mine and turns to the advancing gnomes.

“Fawn over each other on your own time,” Lawrence says under his breath, only loud enough for me to hear.

Oh, I intend to—tonight.

Hopefully the assembly doesn’t drag on too long.

* * *

I sit with my chin resting on my hand, my elbow on the table, slumped over as much as this dress will allow. We’re five hours into the assembly, and there’s a chance I’ll die before it ends.

Lawrence is sovereign, but that doesn’t mean his nobles can’t stir up trouble. The Woodmores refuse to partner with us, preferring to keep to themselves and saying they’ll ward attacks specifically directed at their people only. The gnomes want to fight anything and everything—right this second—and Gruebin’s only request is to be given a royal exemption on taxes for the foreseeable future.

Of course, that riles up the High Vales, and they claim that if the gnomes don’t have to pay taxes, they won’t either.

On top of all that, there’s apparently bad blood between the gnomes and the Boermin, and neither knew the other would be in attendance before they arrived. We had to scurry to rearrange the tables so they’d be seated on opposite sides of the great hall, where they can scowl across the room but notbreathe on each other.

There are almost two hundred of us in attendance, probably the largest semi-peaceful gathering of the five races in…forever. And we’re getting nowhere. The assembly has become an open-air forum to voice all the grievances anyone has ever had for the last hundred years. Camellia has barely been mentioned, but when her name is brought up, all are quick to remind Lawrence that she is his sister and, therefore, his responsibility.

Does it matter that she threatens the whole of Caldenbauer? Of course not. They’re all too busy pointing fingers.

After another two hours, Lawrence finally stands. The great hall falls silent as eyes move to the king.

“We’re all tired,” he says, weary. “We knew there was a possibility the discussions would take several days, and we’ve prepared rooms. Let’s adjourn for the evening, and we’ll meet again in the morning.”

The same people who grumbled they wanted to retire now lament that they must repeat this tomorrow and claim they’d rather wrap it up all in one go. There’s no pleasing them.

But Lawrence’s decision is final, thank goodness.