From the balcony above, the banquet glittered with chandeliers pulsing blue-white with ether, polished marble reflecting light as nobles clustered in shock. At the center of it all, Arik, warm black hair mussed, golden eyes alight, held a count by the collar as though he were no heavier than a coat.
Damian leaned forward against the railing, the sharp lines of his face unchanged by time. His black hair was cropped short now and swept back, making him look as though he hadn't aged a day past thirty-five despite being fifty-two. Golden eyes gleamed, mischief sparking beneath their burnished steel. He didn't bother hiding his pride.
