Lord Cretio came to a full stop, his boots grinding softly against the stone of the palace floor. His expression, which had remained composed until now, hardened with unmistakable disapproval. He turned slowly to face Thalien, his lips pressed into a thin, pale line.
He was all in all apalled that such words had even been uttered
"Your Grace" he began, voice low and clipped, each word weighed and measured, "your father is prince of Herculia and I am a lord of his."
The silence between them was heavy—but Cretio pressed on, undeterred.
"It would be in the best interest of everyone behind these walls if we concentrate not on your resentments, but on the enemy that waits beyond them. A storm approaches, not of gossip and palace intrigue, but of blood and fire, IF we fail to stop that storm our way of life is going to die.
And I daresay we have better use for our breath than to spend it tearing down what little remains of the royal image, flawed as it may be."
