The red-haired vampire flicked a sharp glance at Sylene—brief, assessing—before turning away without a word and heading toward the refreshment tables at Alden's side.
All eyes followed the pair in white.
And the night, at last, truly began.
---
Protocol demanded it.
The moment they crossed fully into the ballroom, Melchior's pace shifted—subtle, practiced. His hand remained firm around Sylene's, but his attention sharpened, gaze lifting toward the raised platform at the far end of the hall.
The king's chair first.
Then the royal advisors.
Then the high judge.
There was an order to these things, and Melchior followed it without fail.
Sir Melchior leaned closer to Sylene and whispered lightly, "Remember the story I told you—about your past."
His thumb brushed Sylene's shoulder, steady. "To the king, and everyone else, you're my hybrid. The one who was trafficked."
A pause, softer.
"Stay calm. Act accordingly. I'll back you up."
