Elsewhere in the hall, another tension simmered beneath the surface, unnoticed by most but burning steadily in one woman's chest.
Seraphielle was growing increasingly restless. And she was struggling internally to remain seated.
Every passing minute felt like an eternity.
She sat with perfect posture, her expression carefully neutral, but her fingers tapped restlessly against the armrest with barely restrained irritation. The earlier chaos surrounding the queen, the prince, even the shifting atmosphere of the court—all of it had passed her by like irrelevant noise.
Her focus was elsewhere, focused on Mira and the lack of reply from her.
Mira should have reported back to her by now on her progress. But she hasn't and that alone was enough to tighten Seraphielle's patience into something dangerously thin.
