The sun had barely crested over the far spires of Arcanis when Selphine and Aurelian claimed their usual corner table at the terrace café near the upper promenade.
It was quieter than usual—at least, in the way noble haunts quieted during deep intrigue. The kind of quiet that carried the weight of speculation beneath every clink of porcelain and overly polite exchange of words.
Selphine sliced into her honeyed fruit with surgical calm. "So," she said, not looking up, "are we all just pretending the world didn't get rearranged yesterday?"
Aurelian, halfway through dunking a piece of spiced bread into his tea, snorted. "Oh no. We're absolutely pretending." He popped it into his mouth, chewed, then added, "We're nobles. It's what we do when we don't know what the hell just happened."
The corner of Selphine's mouth twitched. "Lucavion."
Aurelian's expression sobered. "Lucavion."
