Cam had never been so sore in his life. Every step was painful, every movement a reminder of the hours and hours he'd spent on his carriage's bench. He'd thought he was being excessively clever to bring a carriage when so many of the other nobles were riding on horses, but he longed for the soft leather of a saddle. The carriage took every bump in the road and slammed that energy through his skeleton. 

His mood was simmering as he limped to the tent set up next to his own, nodding at the guard posted at the entry. He didn't knock before untying the tent strap and throwing it open, ducking in with a scowl on his face. His eyes sought out Isolde, and his eyes were as cold as his voice menacing when he spoke.

"I'm sure you're aware that we're coming up on your backwards part of the world," he said. "The dirt and filth in the air no doubt smell like home. Let me be clear that neither I nor the king have any misconceptions about the depth of your loyalty to your regent. Even the hint of an attempt at escape, the slightest signal to one of your compatriots, and there will be repercussions that will make your stay at the Beldam seem like a spa retreat."