The banquet had all the trappings of grace—crystal glasses catching chandelier light, symphonies drifting through charmed instruments, nobles smiling with teeth that hid daggers—but Jesse could feel it beneath it all.
Tension.
It hung like a storm just above the silver-polished plates. Not loud. Not spoken. But palpable.
And it started before the first toast.
The seating arrangements had been subtle—just a few inches lower, a few degrees off-center. The Lorian envoy was not seated at the same tier as the native nobles. They were not placed as guests of honor. They were not even included in the central rings of authority.
They were sidelined.
Deliberately.
And every single one of them knew it.
Adrian Vale's jaw had not relaxed once since they were seated. His fingers remained folded with too much force on the table, the tension creeping down his arms like steel cords beneath the fabric of his ceremonial coat.
Isolde, seated beside him, smiled.
Not softly. Not kindly.
