The banquet hall was a masterpiece of opulence and illusion.
Gilded chandeliers spilled amber light onto polished marble floors. Velvet drapes trimmed in gold pooled at the windows, and every place setting shimmered with silver cutlery and crystal goblets. But beneath the glitter, the air was heavy, tainted with old grudges, masked smiles, and silent war.
Liora entered at the Queen Dowager's side, trailing half a step behind Evelyne. The assembled nobles turned as one, eyes narrowing, lips curving, and masks of civility slipping into place.
"Who's the girl with her?"
"Miral's niece?"
"Isn't that Prince Lucien's concubine?"
Liora felt every glance like a blade. Still, she walked straight-backed, chin raised. She wore a deep wine-colored gown, Rowan's doing, elegant but restrained. Nothing that suggested wealth, but not servitude either.
She was no longer a girl in rags.
She was a threat.
