Lucavion's eyes didn't blink.
Didn't move.
He simply looked.
Right through her.
Through the elegance, the decorum, the layers of imperial polish that Isolde wore like silk armor. His gaze didn't rage, didn't burn. It measured. Quiet and ruthless, the way a blade does before the draw.
And in return—
She looked back.
Unflinching.
A still war across a gilded hall.
Until—
A hand touched his shoulder.
Not hard. Not rushed.
Just present.
"What are you waiting for?" Caeden's voice cut in, low but steady—grounded in that way Lucavion had learned to trust without ever admitting it.
Lucavion turned.
The tension in his neck slipped away with the breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
His smirk returned—small, but real.
"Right," he said.
Not loud.
But enough.
He turned from the dais, the nobles, the eyes trying to read prophecy in every twitch of his jaw. The moment broke like glass cooling in water.
Together, the five walked.
