Valeria chewed in reluctant silence, her jaw tight even as the flavors soothed the last tremor of frustration coiled behind her ribs. The pastry was too good for its own damn good—soft, layered, the kind of thing that demanded appreciation even when she didn't want to give it.
She swallowed.
And—against her better judgment—some of the tension left her shoulders.
Lucavion, of course, noticed. He didn't say a word. But the glint in his eye deepened, like a cat that had successfully nudged a cup just far enough off the table.
The bastard.
She turned her gaze slightly, watching the crowd. The dancers, the nobles, the glittering rot of conversation spinning around them like gilded wheels. But beneath it all, she could still feel the burn of Elaris's presence like a lingering scent in her lungs. Cold. Measured. Smiling.
Lucavion's voice came again, soft, cutting through the orchestra of court life like the flick of a blade's tip.
"They didn't leave it at that, did they?"
