"Lord Philia, you've truly outdone yourself this time. I've never seen the White Lilies bloom with such… aggressive perfection."
The Marquis Volte's daughter had a bright, lilting voice that drifted gently through the Rose Pavilion. Philia didn't look up immediately. Instead, he maintained his focus on the delicate task of pouring tea, the golden liquid falling in a flawless, silent stream from a spout of hand-painted porcelain. He let the silence stretch just long enough to make the other Omegas and noblewomen lean in, a subtle gravity he exerted without ever having to raise his voice.
The Pavilion was an architectural boast of glass and white iron, nestled in the warmest corner of the Royal Gardens where the sun felt like a constant, adoring embrace. It was stiflingly elegant. Every surface was covered in silk that probably cost more than an entire northern village, and the air smelled of sugar, roses, and tense gossip.
