The reception hall smelled of lilies, floor wax, and the expensive perfume of people who had never had to scrub a floor.
Workers in soft-soled shoes moved like ghosts, draping heavy blue silk over the long tables to hide the scuffs of the academic year. Silverware chimed—a delicate, musical sound that felt entirely out of place against the tension winding tight behind my ribs.
It looked like a party. It felt like a kill box.
I stood in the shadow of the service entrance, the cold kit bag heavy at my feet. Cael Veyron leaned against the doorframe next to me, arms folded across his chest. He watched a servant polish a soup spoon until the silver distorted his reflection.
"Too much quiet," Cael said, his voice low enough to drop under the clatter of plates.
"Quiet is just noise holding its breath," I said.
"You sound like a soldier," he said.
"I am," I answered. "So are you. Tonight, we just have to wear better coats."
