The General descended the steps.
The crowd parted for him the way the Northern Sea parts for storms—with respect tempered by prudent fear.
He walked straight toward them.
Elion felt Lyra tense beneath his arm. He squeezed her hand lightly—a silent signal: I'm here.
Aurelian stopped two paces away.
Close enough to be heard without raising his voice.
Far enough for everyone to see who commanded the space.
He did not look at Lyra.
He looked at his cousin.
"An… interesting choice, Elion," Aurelian said. His voice was smooth, almost complimentary, if not for the cold glint in his eyes. "Parading your charity among the nobility."
It was a low blow, delivered with kid gloves.
He reduced Lyra to a pet project. A rescued animal.
Elion held his gaze.
"Lyra is not charity, Aurelian. She is company."
Aurelian smiled—the kind that never reached his eyes.
Finally, he turned to her.
His eyes traced the green dress, the jewels, her carefully arranged hair. He seemed to be searching for a flaw in the stitching, a loose thread—anything that proved she did not belong in that attire.
He found nothing.
"Green suits you," he said. "It almost makes one forget where you came from."
Lyra felt the blood rise.
She remembered the hold of the ship. The smell of mold. Him laughing drunkenly from a brothel chair.
The urge to scream, to spit in his face, surged hot and violent.
Then she remembered the lesson of the past six months.
Hesitation is error.
But uncontrolled emotion is defeat.
She let her breath out slowly.
She smiled.
Not the radiant smile she'd given Elion.
A smaller one. Sharper.
"Green is the color of my homeland, General," she said. Her voice did not shake. "We do not forget where we come from. We simply learn how to survive where we are placed."
Aurelian blinked.
He had expected submission. Or explosive anger—something he could ridicule.
He had not expected calm.
"Survive," he repeated, testing the weight of the word. "An interesting definition of survival. Silk dresses, jewels, parties… It seems captivity was quite kind to you."
"The kindness came from one man," Lyra replied, tightening her grip on Elion's arm. "The cruelty came from everyone else."
The silence around them thickened. Nearby conversations faltered, abandoned. People were listening.
Aurelian stepped closer, invading her personal space.
He lowered his voice to a whisper meant only for the three of them.
"Don't confuse luck with merit, girl," he said, venomous. "Silk doesn't change what you are. You can dress like a queen, learn to read our maps and speak our tongue… but at the end of the night, everyone here knows how much you cost."
It was meant to destroy her.
To make her cry.
To remind her of the thirty gold coins.
But Lyra looked at him.
And what Aurelian saw in her eyes unsettled him.
There was no shame.
There was pity.
"I know how much I cost, General," she said, holding his gaze as he retreated by a fraction of an inch. "The price was on the table. Everyone saw it."
She paused.
"What troubles you," she continued softly, "is that you were there too—sitting at the same table, drinking the same wine… and no one knows how much you cost to be there."
Aurelian froze.
His face went pale, then flushed with restrained fury.
She had called him a hypocrite.
In front of his cousin.
Without uttering a single insult.
Elion cleared his throat, hiding a nervous smile, and gently drew Lyra away.
"The music is starting, Aurelian. Excuse us."
They passed the General.
Lyra brushed past him, green silk whispering against his black uniform.
Aurelian stood motionless in the center of the hall.
The music began—violins, a waltz.
He should have been furious.
He should have had her arrested for insolence.
But as he watched the elf turn in the arms of his gentle cousin, Aurelian felt something far more dangerous than anger.
He felt curiosity.
She bites, he thought, touching the spot on his wrist where her silk had brushed him.
And she bites deep.
For the first time in years, the General's boredom vanished.
The game had begun.