As the door opened, Cas leaned sideways to peer around his father’s back. At any other time, he would have been happy to see Iris, but right now, he was just hoping she would be able to handle being questioned by Atlas. He wasn’t sure what the king might decide was “suspicious” enough to warrant extreme measures. There was also no way for him to warn her about the deal they had made without his father overhearing, so he just had to cross his fingers that she wouldn’t do or say anything to set the monarch off.

Following Atlas into the room, the prince noticed with some concern that Iris looked like she was ailing. Her fair skin looked paler than usual, and it seemed like she hadn’t gotten much sleep during the night. While the sight made him feel relieved that he had managed to dissuade the king from sending her straight to the interrogators, he worried that if she had gotten sick, she wouldn’t have the mental agility to keep the monarch from deciding she was guilty of conspiring with the rebellion. The thought made him swallow hard, and he lightly bit his tongue to keep himself from alerting her to the potential danger she was in.

[color=#b97703][i]Relax, relax,[/i][/color] he chided himself silently. [color=#b97703][i]Her innocence will prove itself. There’s no reason to freak out.[/i][/color] He exhaled slowly, side-stepping around the inside of the doorframe to stand against the wall while his father strode further toward the center of the room. There was nothing he could do during the questioning aside from simply being present, so he kept his distance and tried to focus on the voices transmitting through his earpiece. The interrogation of the prisoners was due to start in two minutes.

“You look tired,” Atlas, who was even keener than his son, observed as he turned back to the amnesiac. He gestured to the sofa. “Sit. This shouldn’t take long.” There was a confidence to his voice that made Caspian frown. Despite all his assertions that Iris wasn’t involved in the Scourge, it seemed like his father was still convinced that she was to blame for the attack on their home. He hoped the king wouldn’t let his personal bias influence his decision when he chose to either let her remain in the mansion or send her away for further questioning.

He leaned back against the wall and folded his arms loosely over his chest, distracting himself from his nervousness by listening to the soldiers who were present at the interrogation. They were reviewing the information they had already squeezed out of the terrorists—none of which was useful so far—and ranking the importance of information they still hoped to procure throughout the process. The conversation was uninteresting to him, but it was better than paying attention to his father, who had just begun his own private investigation.

“Tell me, Iris,” Atlas’s tone was both smooth as velvet and sharp as a sword. “From which district in the capital were you born?”