He yelled the last words over his shoulder. His voice cracked. It echoed off the marble. It bounced off the silk and the copper and the candlelight.
The stranger did not react.
He did not flinch. He did not pull away. He did not raise his hands. He stood. His collar was in the prince's grip. His violet eyes looked down at the prince's face. They were still calm. Still unhurried. Still assessing.
He looked past Goliath. Past his shoulder. At Sera. At the bed. At her exposed body. At her bra, pulled down, her breasts bare. At her panty, soaked, the waistband pulled by the fat one's thumb, her hairy pubes visible through the wet cotton. At her face. At her tears. At her trembling lip. At the blood.
"Is your name Sera?" he asked again.
His voice was the same. Quiet. Unhurried. As if the prince were not there. As if the hand on his collar were a fly. As if the knights he could hear running down the corridor were a distant wind.
