The heavy air in the Grand Salon felt thick enough to choke on. Dozens of eyes remained glued to the doorway, tracking Cherion and Zarius with an uneasy mixture of suspicion, curiosity, and outright fear. The whispered rumors fluttered back and forth across the velvet couches and polished marble floors, but no one actually dared to approach them.
Lord Fance had already managed to melt into the background, slipping off toward a cluster of nervous countesses near the window to avoid being guilt-associated with the Solaric representatives.
Cherion didn't mind. He stood near the edge of the room, keeping his posture relaxed and his face pleasantly neutral, though his sharp eyes took in every twitch of a curtain and every hurried whisper.
"Look at them," Cherion murmured under his breath, barely moving his lips. "You'd think we brought the poison in our coat pockets."
