Across the lacquered table, conversation bloomed in uneven clusters—some quiet, some edged, some awkward with the stiffness of unfamiliar limbs. Cutlery clicked in patterned rhythm, platters passed back and forth with tentative civility.
Selphine was murmuring something to Aurelian, her hand ghosting over the rim of her goblet, eyes constantly moving. Marian watched Mireilla with thinly veiled suspicion, while Caeden sat in stiff silence, his plate dutifully full.
Even Quen and Valen—typically a two-man orchestra of noise—kept their antics measured, as if even they could feel the strange tension threading the air. No one quite knew what this was yet. Not enemies. Not friends. Something in between.
And Elara… Elara ate in silence.
Fork to plate. Bite, chew, swallow.
Mechanical.
Deliberate.
But her eyes—her mind—were far from the meal.
Because across from her, a devil sat grinning.
Lucavion.
