The fabric was cool beneath his fingers. He slipped it on, fastened the buttons, and left the room without a second glance. The house was already settling into its evening quiet. Footsteps echoed briefly in the corridor, then faded behind him.
A carriage waited outside.
It was not his own—sent by House Rethval, shared among several guests. Edrin stepped inside, nodding once to another passenger he recognized only by face. No names were exchanged. The carriage moved on almost immediately, wheels rattling over stone.
The ride was short.
Gas lamps flickered along the street, lighting rows of orderly buildings and closed windows. Conversation inside the carriage never began. When they arrived, Edrin stepped down, adjusted his coat, and followed the others through the open gates.
House Rethval was modest by noble standards.
Well kept, respectable, without ambition. Light spilled from the tall windows, and voices drifted into the courtyard—laughter, polite disagreement, the steady hum of an evening meant to pass without incident.
At the entrance, a servant stood beside a small lectern, announcing guests as they arrived.
Names were spoken clearly. Greetings followed. Edrin waited his turn, hands folded loosely in front of him.
The servant glanced down at the list, then up.
Guests ahead of him were announced and ushered inside. When it was Edrin's turn, the servant paused, eyes scanning the page again. Then, without comment, he stepped aside and gestured toward the door.
No name was spoken.
Edrin hesitated for half a breath—just long enough to notice the silence—then entered with the others.
Inside, the reception hall was already filling. Groups formed and shifted easily. Servants moved through the room with trays. Nothing appeared out of place.
No one turned toward him.
Edrin stepped aside to make room for another guest, then moved forward again, blending into the space as he had done countless times before.
The evening continued.