The hour was late, the sky outside was thick with stars, but Damon Salvatore was far from rest. He stood near the window in his private chamber, his coat already on, gloves in one hand, the other gripping his phone.
He hadn't said much to anyone all day. Not that it was unusual for him, but tonight, his silence felt heavier. His mind had lingered for days on Yarnat, on the woman that was there.
Just as he was about to place a call, a sharp knock startled him.
"Your Highness," a page's voice was muffled by the heavy door. "His Majesty requests your presence. There's been an… arrival."
Damon's brows pulled together, a frown deepening the lines on his forehead.
An arrival?
The word hung in the air, charged with an unwelcome familiarity. He didn't ask questions; he didn't need to. The gnawing feeling in his chest, a cold knot of dread, told him everything he needed to know.
—
