The golden doors parted.
Velrosa stepped through first, her stride measured, her dress a midnight tide that danced like ink drawn under a hunter's moon.
Beside her walked no slave.
No bound worthless from the pits. But a man that had engraved his name in this city by blood alone.
A man Esgard had learned to speak off only in low tones—
The Demon Blade.
Ian walked at her flank in tailored black. The crest of House Elarin was sewn above his heart in dark thread, subtle enough to miss unless you were looking. Many were.
A year ago, they'd entered the same hall—her in a less appealing gown, held upright by pride alone, with a slave everyone had already counted out.
Whispers then were crueler, open.
Eyes lingered with the same pity one might offer a fallen star too dim to rise again.
But tonight?
Tonight, the stares were different. Lingering, yes—but calculating. Hungry. The courtiers didn't circle like vultures now.
