"Which means someone taught him. Or handed him something they shouldn't have."
He didn't look at Thalor when he said it.
But he didn't need to.
Thalor's lips parted, a breath drawn—but just before a reply could form—
The atmosphere shifted.
Not sharply. Not with fanfare. Just… changed. Like a draft sneaking into a sealed chamber.
Both men felt it.
Thalor straightened slightly.
Rowen's head turned, slow and deliberate.
And there—stepping past the etched columns near the east side of the ballroom, flanked by two junior nobles dressed in quiet finery—was a man they both recognized.
Varen Drakov.
The heir to House Drakov. The blood-rival of the Draykes.
"That is…..Varen Drakov."
The name moved like a slow ripple through the crowd, even if no one dared speak it aloud. He didn't announce himself. He didn't need a fanfare or family seal. His arrival moved air.
Because that was what Varen did.
