I returned my attention to Relos Var, determined to have some input in the conversation. I never had the chance.

“Well, well, what bit of spice have you brought us today, Icicle?” A man jeered behind us. “I’d love a handful of that with dinner.”

And someone grabbed my rear.

I had meant to behave. Don’t forget I still felt weak after Senera had drawn her mark on me. The last thing I wanted was a fight. But I still had my pride. In my dominion, certain behaviors earned an immediate reaction. And this person hadn’t just given me a cute pat on the butt—he’d dug in, fingers curled in to touch places where they were not invited.

So I turned around and punched the man behind me as hard as I could.

In hindsight, I overcompensated. I no longer possessed supernatural strength, but I could throw a punch. Unfortunately, I hadn’t a clue how to do so safely.

I felt the cartilage in the man’s nose give way, and at the same time, something in my hand snapped. The pain was excruciating.

The man I’d hit had light brown skin, ice-blue eyes, and dark, curly hair. He’d just started to grow a Yoran-style beard, still too short for braiding or jewelry. And he hadn’t been expecting me to hit him.

I’d knocked him back into the lap of the man next to him, who I would later realize had been the man who’d actually spoken. A too-vain, too-egotistical creature with a handsome face, whose bright blue eyes managed to outshine his embroidered blue silks.

Even though we stood in a room full of warriors and wizards with hardened battle reflexes, nobody seemed to know quite how to respond. Everyone stopped talking. Even the musicians stopped playing.

I cradled my broken hand to my chest, tears in my eyes.

Silver flashed as Senera returned to my side. She grabbed my arm, trying to draw me behind her.

The young man I’d punched stood back up, mouth gaping, his hand going to his bleeding nose. “How dare—!” I think he’d have said more, but his broken nose affected his speech. He must have realized he sounded ridiculous.

Then he reached for his sword.

“Exidhar, what’s going on?”

The young man’s eyes widened in horror, while everyone else—even the royals—stood. And I recognized his expression: a guilty boy about to be dressed down by a parent before all his friends. The way those friends suddenly found the mountain view fascinating, the way they’d all jumped to their feet, told me said “parent” wasn’t a random guest.

Which meant I was in trouble.

I blinked the tears from my eyes, tried to focus past the pain, and took my first good look at Azhen Kaen, Duke of Yor.