The East Wing was a different world. It lacked the metallic clatter of the training grounds and the heavy, oppressive mana-pressure that defined the Duke's private study. Here, the air was filled with the scent of jasmine and the kind of expensive, soft fabrics that only existed to look beautiful. Vane followed the maid through the corridors, his heavy boots feeling loud and clumsy against the ornate rugs. He kept his hands at his sides, but his fingers twitched with the urge to check the hidden dagger at his waist.
He was led into a small, sun-drenched parlor. Duchess Selene Sol was sitting by a wide window that looked out over the valley, a tea set made of thin, bone-white porcelain already laid out. Her violet hair was pinned up in an intricate style, but her shoulders were hunched, as if she were trying to make herself a smaller target for the room.
Vane sat down when she gestured toward the empty chair. He felt the familiar, cold itch behind his eyes.
