Liam was dressed.
That, according to the room, was already a diplomatic achievement.
His suit was the approved one, deep green and dark gold, severe enough to satisfy Mirelle, elegant enough to vindicate Andreas, and free of anything structured around his ribs, which Liam considered the only true victory of the morning. His hair had been styled simply, because he had chosen to wear it down, and Arik's stylist was almost crying in a corner with the silent devastation of a man who had seen greatness refuse pins.
Liam ignored him.
Kamal, who had entered with tea and the air of a man who had witnessed empires collapse with less emotion than a stylist facing unbound hair, only sighed and informed Arik that Amara was recovering.
"Marin decided to push the treatment faster," Kamal said, setting the tray down. "As a result, she sleeps through most of the day. But she looks younger and healthier by the morning."
Arik's expression softened almost invisibly. "Good."
