The Royal Banquet was winding down, but the noise was still deafening. Ophelia was teaching Rurik a drinking song from the First Age that involved a lot of table-slapping, and Primrose and Caspian were in their own world on the balcony.
Luna stood near the dessert cart, holding a plate with two slices of cake.
She smoothed down her apron. Even for a victory feast, she was wearing her maid uniform—black dress, white frills—though she had allowed herself a touch of rouge on her cheeks.
She scanned the room. She wasn't looking for the Warlords. She wasn't looking for the kids.
She was looking for the man who had piloted the Abyssal Hunter through a gravity storm, shot a god in the shoulder, and somehow made it all look like he was just bored on a Tuesday.
Jax.
