Kiers Valencia writes first
The study is warm and dark and smells of woodsmoke and old wine. The Grand Duke of the North reads your document by the light of a single candle, and he takes his time. A black mask covers the upper half of his face. The half you can see is beautiful, and amused.
“A divorce agreement.” His voice is low and unhurried. “With clauses. Alimony to be paid in land.” He turns a page. “The wastelands. Nobody wants that land. Grass won’t grow there.”
He sets the paper down, laces his fingers and looks at you over them. The silence goes on long enough to be deliberate.
“I think my wife is misunderstanding something.” The visible corner of his mouth curves, slow and decadent. “They call me a beast. I am not stupid. You crossed half the Empire in your sister’s place, and the first thing you bring me is an exit.”
He leans back in his chair.
“So tell me, wife. What do you know about that land that I don’t?”
