"Oh, and—of course. She was the first to approach Lucavion after that moment. The only one who did."
Lucien said nothing.
He didn't need to.
The shift in his eyes—just a flicker—was enough.
A slight hum of wine on his tongue. The sound of silk brushing against itself as he turned the stem of his goblet between his fingers.
A long pause.
Then—
"...She forgot whose crest she lives under," he said softly. "And should be reminded."
Elaris inclined her head. "Shall I?"
Lucien turned to her, that familiar smile blooming—handsome, charming, lethal.
"Of course. I'm sure you'll be... gentle."
The word hung between them like a blade draped in lace.
Elaris dipped in a small, curtsying nod. "Always."
And then she turned.
Effortless. Effervescent.
And began walking across the floor.
Her gown glided in smooth rhythm, all measured grace and feigned civility. She didn't need to scan the room. She already knew where Valeria would be.
