In the Great Hall of the Northern Capital, chandeliers cast a warm, flickering light over the guests and nobles in the Empire. The long oak tables groaned under the weight of roasted boars, root vegetables, and rivers of dark Northern wine.
Elian stood at the top of the short staircase leading to the High Table, a leather-bound ledger tucked perfectly under his arm. He wore the charcoal grey Steward's uniform, the silver Wolf's Favor gleaming at his throat, concealing the fading bruises Cassian had left there the day before.
He surveyed the room. It was exactly what Ambrose had predicted: a meat market.
Every Northern Lord with an unmarried child had brought them. The Omegas were strategically scattered throughout the hall, dressed in silks and velvets that were much too thin for the drafty stone room.
But it wasn't their clothes that were the weapon; it was the air.
