But as I passed Keir, even with the High Lord at my back, he hissed almost too quietly to hear, “You’ll get what’s coming to you, whore.” Night exploded into the room. People cried out. And when the darkness cleared, Keir was on his knees. Rhys still lounged on the throne. His face a mask of frozen rage. The music stopped. Mor appeared at the edge of the crowd—her own features set in smug satisfaction. Even as Azriel approached her side, standing too close to be casual. “Apologize,” Rhys said. My heart thundered at the pure command, the utter wrath. Keir’s neck muscles strained, and sweat
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