The Duke's gaze swept the ballroom, cataloging each cluster of conversation that had formed around the edges of the dance floor. Lord Ironhold's suspicious glare burned through his bronze mask, while Lady Morwyn's animated gestures drew an ever-expanding circle of listeners, her fan cutting through the air with increasing urgency.
The atmosphere had shifted like a tide turning. What had begun as careful political theater now teetered on the edge of genuine uprising, each whispered conversation adding weight to the growing rebellion.
Haverford's smile remained fixed in place, but his hand pressed against the small of Calypso's back with increasing force. Through the golden threads of her gown, he could feel the suppression enchantments pulsing in rhythm with her trapped divine essence. Her power fought against the binding like a caged star, beautiful and terrible in its contained fury, each pulse sending tremors through the delicate magical framework that held her.
