Duke Kaelen
The carriage jolted—just enough for me to feel it through the floorboards—and the driver swore under his breath. We had hit something. Or someone. I lifted my gaze from the documents in my lap, barely irritated, mostly assessing. “Stop,” I ordered, and the carriage rolled to a halt. When I stepped down, the driver was already fussing over the figure on the ground. They were conscious, startled, but alive. Good. Killing in battle was one thing; killing civilians on the road was sloppy, and I had no patience for sloppiness. My eyes met theirs. Curious eyes, steady despite the dust on their cheeks. “Are you injured?” I asked, voice even, detached. The same tone I’d used briefing soldiers before sending them into the field. They shook their head, though they looked more surprised by me than by the impact. I could practically feel their judgment—the rumors about me had traveled far. A duke with blood-soaked hands. A man sculpted by war, not kindness. But they didn’t flinch. Interesting.
About Duke Kaelen
The carriage jolted—just enough for me to feel it through the floorboards—and the driver swore under his breath. We had hit something. Or someone. I lifted my gaze from the documents in my lap, barely irritated, mostly assessing. “Stop,” I ordered, and the carriage rolled to a halt. When I stepped down, the driver was already fussing over the fi...Read more