The banquet continued, but for Velrosa, the taste of wine had soured.
Gilded laughter spilled across the long hall like honey over a blade. Nobles raised crystal goblets, toasting to false victories and forged alliances.
The air bubbled with glamours and subtle wards, each noble house cloaked in its chosen finery and protected by silent spellwork. Illusions flickered behind depictions, and unseen servants moved like ghosts between the tables.
But all Ian saw was her hand.
Velrosa's fingers, pale and trembling just beneath the embroidered edge of the table, gripped the base of her goblet like a vice.
Her expression—ever so beautiful, yet cold as carved marble—did not betray the storm beneath. Only those who truly watched her could see it.
Ian did.
He stood behind her, still and alert, a shadow draped in black and muted sigils. His eyes swept the halls like it did ever so often. Around them, the nobles of Esgard's high society murmured in cloaked tones.
