At that moment, someone stood right before Priscilla.
Tall. Impeccably dressed. His robes a cascade of silver and violet, threaded with platinum that shimmered with subtle warding. His gloves bore the sigil of the imperial line—clean and bold. A crownless presence, but one that carried weight all the same.
The Crown Prince.
Her half-brother.
Lucien Arcturus Lysandra.
He stood there, hands loosely folded behind his back, as if he hadn't been waiting—but had known she would pass this way.
His eyes, a colder shade of crimson than hers, flicked over her attire.
"Off to join the people, dear sister?" he asked, voice smooth as silk steeped in frost. "How noble of you."
Priscilla stopped, the fabric of her coat settling around her like a hush.
"Lucien," she said coolly. No title. No bow.
He stepped forward, leisurely, boots silent against the marble floor. "You could have asked for a private viewing room. I'm sure the court would've found you a corner."
