#ih3

He'd tried his best to remain distant, only daring to even glance her way if the crowd's attentions were already set upon her. Her letters had made it clear that Deston was now keeping a watchful eye on her, and he couldn't bear to do anything that might jeopardise her situation any further.

The marriage he knew about already--finding out Irene intended to marry Uncle Drago, of all people, had twisted the pre-existing bundle of knots in his stomach till they were nigh unbearable. The match didn't make sense. At all. Rodrick had mulled it over time and time again, attempting to find some semblance of logic amidst it all, though he ultimately came up short.

Irene had only known Drago a few days, she'd said as much, and that the union was a happy one. (And political, he'd taken to emphasising.) The idea just didn't sit right with him. He knew his uncle, and he knew Irene... there had to be something else involved.

The rest of her letters' contents were equally at the forefront of his mind. She intended to unseat Deston. Rodrick frowned, lifting a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. None of it added up. He considered himself a relatively wise individual for his years, but his head had only continued to hurt, not provide any real answers.

Despite himself, Rodrick risked looking her way from beneath his lashes. He might've paid her little heed intentionally, but he couldn't help but be hyper-aware of her presence nevertheless, his eyes locating her in mere moments.

She was leaving?

Pursing his lips, Rodrick quietly excused himself from the table, lingering amidst the dancers a while. He'd waited until a particularly energetic dance number played before setting off down the corridor after her, praying to the Sisters that the direction of his exit had gone unnoticed.