A young waitress, barely older than a student, perhaps just inducted into her role by the host House approached their table.
She wore the standard servant's attire for events of this scale: a sleek black uniform with a white collar and a modest skirt that ended just above the knee, with her long hair neatly tied back into a bun.
In her gloved hands, she carried a polished silver tray.
Crystal glasses glittered atop it, filled with a pale violet wine, known for its light sweetness.
A small dish of delicate appetizers accompanied it: thin slices of meat, soft rolls of smoked cheese wrapped in greenleaf, and roasted berries drizzled with honey.
But her eyes were not on the tray.
They were locked on Brandon.
Her steps slowed as she neared, and her breath caught in her throat as she looked at the man.
Surrounded by some of the most terrifyingly powerful women in the world, he looked completely at ease.
