Lucavion's gaze drifted between the two of them—Thalor, poised like a statue carved by an artist who had only ever seen snakes, and Rowen, a blade sheathed in diplomacy but no less sharp for it.
Thalor was smiling.
Of course he was.
That particular brand of smile—the one that glowed with gracious elegance while reeking of orchestration—was painted across his face like lacquer. Calm. Pleasant. Triumphant.
As if this had all gone exactly as he wanted.
Lucavion didn't need confirmation.
He could feel it.
From the moment Thalor approached Priscilla, Lucavion had sensed the quiet gears turning behind that genteel expression. The man wasn't the type to make a scene without a script. Every word, every pause, every breath measured. Even the way he stepped into her space—it had purpose. Not just to remind her of a past. But to push something into motion.
'Did I expect this?' Lucavion thought, jaw tightening. 'No. Not exactly. I didn't think he'd stretch this far in public.'
