Eamond slipped back into the bustling energy of the banquet hall like a ghost returning to the land of the living. The vibrant music and laughter now felt jarring, a stark contrast to the cold, conspiratorial whispers still echoing in his mind.
He kept his expression neutral, a practiced mask he had worn for years at the orphanage, but beneath it, his thoughts churned.
A draconic creature. A traitorous clergyman. The Bishop. Ascension Day. Number Twelve.
The words circled like vultures. He needed to find the others, ensure they were safe, and escape this gilded cage.
He had barely taken a few steps into the throng when a familiar, calm voice cut through his turmoil.
"Eamond. There you are."
He turned to see Marquess Albert approaching, his earlier tension seemingly replaced by a look of quiet satisfaction. Yet, Eamond, now hyper-aware, noticed the lingering tightness around the man's eyes.
