Zeke peeked out from the corner of the crossing hall like a fugitive on the run from his own dignity. His hair—flattened on one side, puffed on the other—was the result of a restless night spent alternating between pacing and panic. His robe wasn't tied properly; it hung open just enough to suggest he'd either fought a dragon or lost a bet. Possibly both.
Behind him, Gin stood stiff as a statue beside a grand vase that cost more than his yearly salary, arms folded and soul visibly leaving his body one dramatic sigh at a time.
"If I had just pledged my loyalty to Lord Zach," Gin muttered under his breath, "I might've had a stable career, a consistent schedule, and—imagine this—dignity."
"I can hear you, Gin," Zeke whispered without even turning around, still craning his neck like a badly trained surveillance camera.
"I was hoping you would, my lord."
