The stone beneath Cassian was colder than it looked. It cut through the thin silk of his trousers and seeped into his skin like winter frost. Or perhaps it wasn't the stone at all—perhaps it was his nerves. That coiled, suffocating tightness in his chest refused to loosen, and his fingers trembled no matter how tightly he laced them together in his lap.
He didn't raise his eyes. Not yet.
Not as the demon woman entered the center of the circular chamber, moving with a grace that bordered on terrifying. She didn't walk—she commanded. Every step she took was calculated, every movement so precise it spoke of someone who had trained beasts larger than buildings and made kings kneel in dust. The staff in her hand made no sound against the polished black floor, and yet somehow it echoed in the hollow pit of his stomach.
She stopped.
"Etiquette," she said at last, her voice cool and razor-edged, "is not merely how you eat, how you bow, or how you hold your tongue. It is about survival."
