Lucavion smirked.
It wasn't broad. It wasn't smug. But Valeria saw it—and what she saw behind it made her chest tighten.
Pride.
Faint, veiled behind the usual irreverence. But it was there.
She hadn't seen that look in years—not since the Iron Matron, not since the tournament. And yet, as though no time had passed, her instincts stirred. The skill of reading him—the one she thought buried under years of distance—was slipping back into her hands like a sword she'd never truly set down.
"Not bad," Lucavion said at last, his voice casual, but quieter than before.
Valeria didn't respond, but her gaze remained on him—unmoving, expectant.
"Knighthood, to many," he went on, "is a tool of serving. A banner. A symbol."
He shrugged, turning his gaze toward the chandelier above, where the light refracted across silver and glass like a dance of masks.
"But it's also a tool of cowardice."
That made her eyes narrow. Sharply.
Lucavion caught it immediately, of course. He always did.
