"Lexius."
He did not stop.
"Lexius."
The doors slammed shut behind him.
The corridor outside felt colder than the study had been. Servants who had lingered too close scattered again, vanishing into side passages and behind tapestries. A single maid dropped a porcelain cup; it shattered against the marble with a sound like ice breaking. She bowed so low her forehead nearly touched the floor, whispering apologies that Lexius did not hear.
He walked.
Not toward his own chambers. Not toward the war room. Not toward the training yard, where he might have buried this fury into a wooden post until his hands bled.
His boots carried him, almost without permission, toward the glass corridor leading to the dome sky garden.
Toward Katniss.
Because she was the only person in this palace who could look at him without seeing a future king — and right now, he did not want to be one.
Behind him, somewhere deeper in the palace, the name written on that crumpled decree waited.
A name he had not yet allowed himself to say aloud.
A childhood companion he had not seen in years.
A face he could no longer quite remember clearly — and was not certain he wanted to.
His betrothal will happen during moonlight dance next week. And he isn’t sure what’s going to happen by then.
