Elara felt the faintest tremor run through her fingers as recognition anchored her back to the memory—the banquet, the chaos, the moment that had shattered every line of decorum.
When Lucien, the Crown Prince, had cornered Lucavion with that smug, lethal precision of his. When half the hall had fallen silent, waiting to see blood drawn or name erased.
And then she had stepped in.
Priscilla—confident, cutting through the tension like a blade through silk.
Choosing Lucavion's side.
The Empire's half-princess siding with the most hated name in the room.
It had thrown the entire evening into uproar at that moment.
And now… now she stood in the middle of a shadowed corridor, cornered by her own kind.
Elara's nails pressed lightly against the column's edge. She didn't move yet. The faint hum of the weave masked her breathing, allowing her to stay unseen.
The air inside the corridor felt colder now—heavy in a way that had nothing to do with temperature.
