The air in the hall had grown thicker as the priest's speech settled, voices dipping into hushed clusters of conversations and doubt. Nobles leaned into their allies, traded whispers behind cups, and cast glances toward the hooded figure standing silent behind the priest.
Morena drifted to a corner of her own, cup in hand, yet not a sip taken from it; her face was emotionless, but her thoughts wandered everywhere. She let her eyes move from cluster to cluster, trying to read the emotions and lips of anyone she could.
Every noble here carried their own weight, their own schemes, and every word spoken would ripple through the city by morning.
It was then she caught sight of a man moving toward her. Older, his hair streaked gray at the temples, his face lined but still carrying the same sternness she remembered. His coat bore the sigil of his house, a narrow dagger crossing a stag's antlers.
Lord Halden Vale.
Edric's father.
