Duke's POV
I had expected someone to approach me before the afternoon ended.
It was not difficult to predict. Public refusal rarely settled anything. It only changed the direction of the pressure, and men who understood power never wasted time pressing where a wound had already closed. They looked for cleaner entries, quieter routes, solutions they could still pretend were reasonable.
Harrington found me before sunset.
He did not send word ahead. He did not interrupt anyone important. He simply appeared at the far edge of the west gallery while the field behind us was still being cleared, his pace measured, his expression carrying the kind of composure men liked to mistake for neutrality.
It was not neutrality.
Men like Harrington never came empty.
"Your Grace," he said as he stopped beside me.
"Harrington."
