The crowd parted before them.
Not because anyone moved, but because presence, real presence, had a gravitational pull, and Lucas carried his like a crown no one dared to name aloud. He didn't pause at the threshold. Didn't glance at the decor or the orchestra or the four-tiered cake that was definitely an imperial threat disguised as dessert. His eyes locked on the one corner of the room already thrumming with power and familial chaos.
Of course they were all there.
Serathine, in obsidian silk and green garnets, holding a wine flute like it doubled as a scepter.
Cressida, layered in cream and gold, a vision of seasoned strategy in heels sharp enough to puncture treaties.
Caelan, regal in midnight black, with one hand tucked behind his back and the other holding what might have been the event schedule or a list of nobles to ignore.
And behind them, slightly to the left, like carefully arranged witness statements:
