27 April, 1371. St Ivan's Palace, Havietten
The days and weeks that followed were anxious ones for Celia. As hard as she tried, she couldn't get Viscount Nadrim's parting words out of her head.
They echoed in her mind like a wish. A hope.
An omen?
How could someone have such festering hatred for children he didn't even know, she asked herself over and over? Especially when they were supposedly his little half nephews?
If Antony knew the truth, that they're actually his grandchildren, it still wouldn't matter. She knew the only change then would be how the viscount would try to use them as pawns to serve his own purpose.
Celia knew Lucas's father was back in the Tyrian court again, far away from her reality. She'd received a report from the King of Tyre confirming as much.
So why did she still feel so rattled by her thoughts? Why were her senses heightened by fear?