King's man and thief

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"You don't have very long to get ready," Kastara chided her husband gently.

"I told you, I'm not going." Deveren's voice sounded like a stubborn child's, even in his own ears. His physical strength, though not inconsiderable, came from lean, toned muscles rather than a bulky, powerful frame. That, combined with a friendly, open face, made him seem much younger than his twenty-seven years. That boyish face was presently set in a scowl. He sprawled in one of the beautifully carved chairs that decorated their solar. Horse muck clung to his fine leather boots and spattered his breeches. His tunic was permeated by the scent of sweaty Deveren and sweatier Flamedancer, his lively new horse, and Lord Deveren Larath took a perverse pleasure in knowing that he probably smelled worse than the lowliest stable hand in his employ. He crossed his arms and glared at his wife.

Kastara arched a raven-dark eyebrow. At that moment there came a knock on their solar door.

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