The murmurs still lingered like smoke—heavy, cloying, desperate to cling to something solid. Faces turned, some with suspicion, others with newfound reverence. But Lucavion didn't revel in it.
Not yet.
He let the glass touch his lips again—not to drink, but to move. A subtle gesture, just enough to keep eyes from noticing the pause in his breath. The room saw poise. Confidence. But behind his eyes—
He was calculating.
Exactly as expected.
From the moment he stepped onto that terrace weeks ago, when the festival's laughter still masked the rot beneath, this had been his intent. Not rage. Not vengeance. Structure.
'The world calls it instinct,' he mused, 'but it's just well-read memory. All of this—every line, every look, every silence—it was written before any of them knew they were actors.'
