The banquet had rebalanced.
Music returned, laughter slowly layered back into conversation, and the polished masks of nobility were once again fitted neatly to their hosts. Waitstaff moved with choreographed grace, trays of crystal glasses weaving between silk-clad guests. What had been sharp tension an hour ago had softened—diffused, like wine after a deep pour.
Thalor, of course, was satisfied.
He walked slowly toward the center of the hall again, robes swaying with his measured pace, a glass of red still untouched in his hand. His fingers traced the rim idly, but his mind was already organizing the next threads—evaluations, impressions, leverage. The duel had done its work.
Yes… it was a draw on paper.
But in truth?
It was placement.
Rowen's contempt still pulsed faintly beneath his forced calm, that much was obvious. He had treated Lucavion like a disruption, not a rival. And yet, now, even in silent denial, he couldn't erase the sound of steel echoing equal.
