The hall below shimmered like a sea of jewels spilled across marble. Music swelled, violins and flutes weaving their bright deception, while chandeliers dripped golden fire over noble heads. Perfume and sweat mingled with roasted meats, a sweetness turned faintly sour, the kind of excess that clung to the skin long after the feast was over.
Above it all, leaning against the stone balustrade of the gallery, Aiden held his silence. His chest still smoldered from the memory of Lilith's claws, her laughter woven into the marrow of his bones. He had wanted distance—from the saintess, from prophecy, from everything. But distance was an illusion. The world had a way of drawing him into its snare.
"Why is it," came the voice at his back, "that you are not tainted?"
Aiden froze.
The voice was smooth, heavy, like velvet dragged across a blade. He turned, golden eyes catching the gleam of torchlight—and found himself staring into the pale, sharp gaze of the Duke.
