Loyalty had become a performance.
Lyra could see it in the way courtiers bowed—too low, too careful—as if reverence itself might protect them from Kael's wrath. Words of devotion dripped like honey, but beneath every smile lurked teeth. The Flame Court was no longer a gathering of nobles and allies. It was a stage, and every soul upon it wore a mask.
And someone—hidden among them—was feeding Vaelora.
Kael didn't notice it. Or rather, he refused to admit it. He spoke of traitors in abstract terms, as if they were shadows beyond the walls, not seated beside them at the council table. His fire was turned outward, against whispers, against fear. But Lyra could feel it. The betrayal was closer. It was here.
She felt it most in the quiet.
