The banquet hall shimmered with gold and flame, yet beneath the chandeliers, silence had weight. Every noble wore a smile, but their eyes flickered like knives. The air itself was thick with suspicion, heavy with the stench of fear disguised as perfume.
Lyra felt it most keenly. The laughter that rose around the tables was hollow, forced — every chuckle edged with poison, every toast a veiled curse. She sat at Kael's side, her hands cold against the stem of her goblet.
She had thought, foolishly, that this feast might calm the tides. That food and flame might bind wounds after Ashenya's death. Instead, the room smelled of roses — not sweet, but rotting, as if memory itself was decaying around her.
When her goblet was filled, she hesitated. The wine swirled like blood in a chalice, catching the candlelight in shades of crimson. She lifted it slowly, her gaze catching Kael's. He smiled — that dangerous, unyielding smile that dared the world to try and take her from him.
