Duke Alaric appeared at the top of the steps, his presence doing what it always did to a crowd.
Turning volume into attention. He did not have to speak to be heard.
His gaze found Jack, took his measure in a glance that held both appraisal and something like pride he would deny under torture.
"Father approves," Octavia murmured.
"He approves of the results," Jack said.
"That's what approval means here."
"Fair."
A pair of foreign envoys approached, one with desert silk and kohl around his eyes, the other with the layered wool of northern marchlands.
Jack greeted them in polite phrases borrowed from their tongues.
They wanted tours, demonstrations, and numbers. Jack gave them just enough.
When the northern envoy asked about the bathhouse's daily capacity, Jack led them to the edge of the steps, gestured to the domes in the distance, described shift rotations and heated pipes and how water moved through a city's body like blood.
