The clink of porcelain.
The muted rustle of silk.
The kind of laughter that didn't reach the eyes.
Valeria sat with her back straight and her hands folded politely over her lap, the gold-threaded edge of her sleeve catching faintly in the light. The salon was, of course, exquisite—gleaming with polished marble floors, skyglass chandeliers that shimmered with captured daylight, and a ceiling enchanted to reflect the cloudless Arcanian sky beyond.
The tea was perfectly brewed. The pastries were delicate, airy, probably woven by aether-fed ovens and kitchens that never saw dust.
She hadn't touched any of it.
Her eyes were fixed on the projection hovering above the center table.
It was shaped like a disk of water suspended in midair—one of the newer scrying enchantments. She didn't understand the theory, not really. Something about binding a directional lens to a stabilized leyline thread, layered with an observing sigil tuned to broadcast.
All she knew was that it worked.
