Elira was the next to speak.
She sat to Trafalgar's right, posture relaxed, expression mild enough to pass for harmless if one didn't know better. Her eyes slid toward him with practiced ease, lips curving faintly.
"By the way," she said, as if it were an afterthought, "how is your maid doing, Trafalgar?" A pause, delicate. "I've heard she's doing quite well." Her gaze lingered. "Still, I didn't expect a Morgain to keep someone like that so close. I suppose…" she smiled thinly, "…destiny has a habit of repeating itself. Like mother, like—"
Maeron laughed. He leaned back in his chair, sound sharp and ugly as it cut through the room.
"Oh, that?" he said, still grinning. "I remember it clearly. The way her body gave out. Just collapsed." He shook his head, amused. "A really pleasant memory, honestly."
Something in the air shifted.
Helgar didn't miss the opening.
