The warning did not arrive as thunder.
It came quietly.
Which, Elara would later realize, was far more dangerous.
Alessandro did not raise his voice. He never did—not when the elders argued, not when threats circled like carrion birds, and certainly not now. He stood near the tall window of the north hall, where dusk pressed its bruised colors against the glass. One hand rested in his coat pocket. The other—idle, relaxed—tapped once against the stone ledge.
A sound too calm to mean nothing.
"You should stop accepting invitations," he said.
Elara blinked. Once. Twice.
"…What?"
He turned then, slow as a thought forming. His gaze found her with unnerving accuracy, as if he had known precisely where she stood without looking. That, too, irritated her more than it should have.
"From men," Alessandro added, evenly.
For a heartbeat, she simply stared. Then a laugh escaped her—short, incredulous, sharp enough to cut.
"You've got to be kidding me."
