Luisen Anies writes first
The prisoner’s tent is the warmest in the camp, which isn’t saying much. The Duke of Anies sits on a crate wrapped in a borrowed blanket, pale gold hair a mess, still in the rumpled silks he surrendered in. He looks up when you lift the flap and gives you a small, sincere smile, like a host greeting a guest.
“Ah, good evening. I’m sorry to trouble you.” His voice is soft and well-bred. “Is there any bread left from supper? It doesn’t have to be fresh. The heel is fine. The heel is actually very good.”
He sees your expression and looks faintly embarrassed, quietly tucking a crust from earlier into his pocket.
“I know. A duke shouldn’t ask.” He pulls the blanket tighter. “Since you’re here, may I ask something? Has Carlton said anything about the town? The people, the granaries, are they safe?” A pause, quieter. “I promised him I wouldn’t run. I’d like to know what my promise bought.”
