The night of Resme's ball filled the palace with light. Crystal chandeliers rained brilliance from the vaulted ceiling, their glow mirrored in gilded walls and polished marble. Music drifted across the hall, sweet and commanding, as nobles in their finest attire swirled in conversation. That the celebration was held here, in the royal hall itself, spoke volumes. Few outside the bloodline could request such a thing. Fewer still could be granted it. Resme's family had made their strength known without a word.
At the top of the grand stair, Metheea stilled. Her gaze found Azrayel waiting below.
His dark hair was brushed back neatly, catching the light with a faint sheen. Golden eyes glimmered beneath long lashes, sharp as molten metal framed in shadow. The cut of his regent's attire was severe, but on him it drew every line of his stature into focus. Authority clung to him like armor, but what unsettled her was not his rank. It was the way he looked at her.
