"Didn't Archmage Selenne order you to report to her chamber?"
The shift was instant.
Forks stilled. Goblets paused midair. Even Quen stopped mid-sentence, blinking.
The tone hadn't been accusatory.
And yet, the weight of it dropped like a coin down a well. Heavy. Measured. Deep.
Lucavion blinked once. Just once. His eyes flicked, not to Cedric, but to Elara—just a breath—and then back.
The grin twitched.
"Oh," he said lightly. "That."
A beat of silence followed. Mireilla glanced toward him with something like suspicion tightening around her posture. Elayne's gaze sharpened like a dagger slipping free of its sheath.
In the thick of all the introductions, the banter, the clink of silverware and shifting lines of conversation, everyone had—somehow—forgotten.
But now, as Cedric's words landed like a blade laid carefully on the table…
They remembered.
The Archmage.
Selenne.
Her voice—calm, exact, edged with finality.
They'd all heard it.
Witnessed it.
