Duke Alaric appeared at the top of the steps, his presence converting volume into attention. He didn't need to speak to be heard.
His gaze found Jack, taking his measure in a glance that held appraisal and something like pride, a sentiment he'd deny even under torture.
"Father approves," Octavia murmured.
"He approves of the results," Jack said.
"That's what approval means here."
"Yeah, I suppose it does."
Two foreign envoys approached, one with desert silk and kohl-lined eyes, the other with layered wool of northern marchlands.
Jack greeted them in polite phrases borrowed from their tongues.
They wanted tours, demonstrations, and numbers. Jack gave them enough.
When the northern envoy inquired about the bathhouse's daily capacity, Jack led them to the edge of the steps, gestured toward the distant domes, described the shift rotations and heated pipes, and explained how water flowed through a city like blood through a body.
