A hush had fallen over the hall.
A hush that tasted like blood when spilled, like wine still clinging to the edge of a glass.
Ian stood behind Velrosa, expression blank—detached, quiet, like a blade that would lay resting on a whetstone.
He said nothing for a moment, scanning the shifting currents of noble gazes, the smug glint in Lugard's eyes, the way some members of the Council leaned in ever so slightly, already savoring the promise of spectacle.
His voice broke the silence like a cut through velvet.
"What is your command?" he asked.
Velrosa didn't answer right away.
Her hand, still beneath the table, had relaxed slightly—fingers no longer clenched but coiled with thought. Her eyes were locked across the banquet floor where Duke Lugard reclined in his high-backed seat, the Council ring glinting on his finger, a goblet of violet-hued wine swaying lazily in his grasp.
She didn't need to ask why.
It was targeted.
Of course it was.
