"Assuming he survives it," Lucius muttered.
The words hung longer than they should have, heavier. None of them corrected it. Because they knew better.
Sirius set down his glass, the clink against the porcelain plate unnaturally loud in the thick quiet that followed. His gaze didn't lift immediately, but when it did, it was serious in a way that rarely made an appearance outside wartime maps and formal succession councils.
"Speaking of survival," Sirius said, voice even but laced with meaning, "it's time we acknowledged our own." His eyes flicked to Lucas. "You."
Lucas stiffened, barely, just a subtle shift of his shoulders, the faintest drop in his gaze. He didn't answer.
As Trevor's hand moved beneath the table, brushing against his wrist, Lucas grabbed it to calm himself down.
Lucius, unusually subdued, nodded once. "You've been publicly presented as Grand Duchess of the North, but not as part of the imperial family."
