Lady Lorna's castle had probably never been so lively. At Suleiman's command, every soldier rushed around the castle grounds like a top whipped into a frenzy.
The officers directed the castle's servants and soldiers as they carefully loaded cart after cart with heavy boxes of gold and silver, exquisite artifacts, bolts of luxurious tapestries, and anything else of value.
The wheels groaned on the flagstones, the weight of their cargo made painfully clear.
Old Nicken was practically scraping the place clean. He didn't even spare the leftover food in the kitchens or the wine bottles in the cellar. Yet the castle's true owner, Lady Lorna, paid it no mind.
Her world had narrowed to one person. She picked out clothes for Suleiman to wear on their outings and walked through the courtyard behind the castle with his arm in hers. She begged him, though he didn't want to talk, to tell her strange tales about the mountain tribes—the bloodshed and battles she had never heard of.
When night fell, she clung to him like a vine, drawing comfort and a sense of safety from their narrow escape. As Suleiman lay on the soft bed, Lady Lorna's faint fragrance lingering beneath his nose, he came to understand an ancient Eastern saying.
A life of pleasure can be a hero's grave. He nearly let himself sink into it, and even saw in his mind's eye his uncle's lazy, satisfied face after a drink.
Can't I enjoy myself for once?!
The thought had barely surfaced before he stamped it out. This world was full of danger. If he wanted to have it all, he couldn't stop here. Peace never lasted; the shadow of war had never lifted. When hostilities began again in a few years, it would be kill or be killed.
Someone