Valeria's gaze didn't falter.
But inwardly—just beneath the polished stillness—her thoughts shifted.
To Rackenshore.
The air was different there. Salt-bitten. Brushed with fog and smoke from old torches. It wasn't a place where names carried weight—only steel did. And that was exactly why she had gone.
To verify rumors. To see for herself whether the man who had slain Korvan—Korvan, a bandit-lord with a bounty older than most nobles' titles—was truly worth the breath behind his name.
What she found?
Was him.
Lucavion.
Unruly. Rough around the edges. Worn like a half-unsheathed weapon.
He didn't bow.
Didn't flatter.
Didn't even seem to care that she wore the crest of Olarion.
But when they crossed swords—
That was where she saw it.
The legitimacy. The precision. The reason Korvan fell.
He didn't best her easily. No. She would never grant that to anyone.
But he did win.
