"What are we doing…" he said, his tone laced with bemusement, "in front of our guests?"
The stillness shattered—not with chaos, but with deference. Like everyone had suddenly remembered their place in the great, gilded frame.
Eyes snapped toward him.
Lucavion's confidence didn't fade, but it tensed—like a swordsman who'd just sensed another blade unsheathing behind him.
And Priscilla—
She didn't flinch.
But her hands stilled at her sides.
Lucien's smile curved, slow and silver.
Not warm.
Not cruel.
Just inevitable.
"And it seems," he said, taking another step forward, "dear sister has a problem with her memory."
He turned slightly toward the gathered nobles, letting his crimson gaze sweep the hall—not accusing, but witnessing. Letting every face feel seen by something older and colder than power.
He wasn't shouting.
He was shaping.
He didn't raise his voice.
He didn't need to.
