Not the crowd. Not the guards. Not Lucien. The way his gaze lingered—not cold, not triumphant. As if this had been the plan. As if this—her voice, her command, her presence—was what he’d been counting on. She felt her breath catch. ’You... wanted me to stop you?’ Had that been it all along? That steady escalation. That inching closer to the edge. The blade sharpening, not just against Lucien—but the entire court. Had Lucavion been daring someone to pull him back? Had he been waiting for her to do it? ’No. That’s ridiculous.’ But the thought wouldn’t leave. Because now, standing there, in the space she had carved between him and judgment—he looked content. Like the piece he had placed on the board had moved exactly as intended. ’You manipulative, impossible—’ Lucavion leaned in toward Lucien. A whisper’s distance. His lips moved—too faint for her to hear. But Lucien’s reaction— His eyes widened—not in fear. Like something had just clicked into place. Something ancient. Something buried. Lucien didn’t speak. Didn’t strike. Didn’t shout. He just stared—at Lucavion. At nothing. Like he’d seen a ghost in the face of the boy he thought he could crush. Priscilla’s chest tightened again. She didn’t know what Lucavion had said. But whatever it was—it hit deeper than any blade. Calm. Unhurried. As if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t just turned the Empire’s gaze upside down and then declined to claim the aftermath. And yet the silence he left behind rang louder than any proclamation. Lucien remained frozen. The crowd remained stunned. She couldn’t stop staring at the space where Lucavion had stood. ’What did you say to him?’ Because whatever it was— It had shaken the Crown Prince more than any public humiliation ever could. But up—shoulders squaring, spine straightening, his presence sweeping across the hall like a blade unsheathed. His eyes, steely and sharp, scanned the frozen crowd. Noble after noble—each one caught mid-thought, mid-judgment, mid-flick of their fans and masks. It cracked through the silence like a hammer to stained glass. "What are you looking at!" The words boomed—not with fury, but with command. As if the room itself had disrespected the Empire. Several nobles flinched. One lord dropped his goblet. A duchess near the fountain turned her eyes downward, her fingers tightening on her clutch. Priscilla didn’t move. She had seen Rowen furious before—but never . Never cornered by it. He turned next—not toward her. Not toward Lucien. But to the three still trying to remain invisible. Their faces had gone pale. Not with guilt. With fear. "You will face the consequences." Rowen’s voice was low now—but colder. Final. Like the click of a prison door before the light vanished. Reynard opened his mouth—perhaps to protest, to plead, to shift the blame. But one look from Rowen silenced him. The kind that didn’t leave room for appeal. No trial would save them now. She watched them—all of them—knowing the tide had finally turned. Not even in acknowledgment. His eyes, cold and unflinching, locked onto hers as if she were another problem on the parchment. Another name on a list. Another variable to control. The kind that didn’t accuse you of treason, but questioned whether you still belonged. Priscilla felt it. That flicker of fear in her spine. The urge to look away. She kept her eyes level. Even as her lungs tightened. Even as every instinct screamed to retreat. Because if she blinked now— If she showed weakness now— The court wouldn’t remember the command in her voice. They’d remember the girl who couldn’t meet a knight’s stare. And Rowen, after a long, chilling moment, said nothing. The doors creaked open. And the musicians entered. Their jackets slightly askew. Their hair windblown. One of them still adjusting a cuff. They were early—clearly rushed. Forced. But their expressions stayed smooth. The lead violinist raised his bow. The harpist settled her hands. A soft, elegant swell of strings and harmony spilled into the space like water poured over fire. The shift was immediate. Nobles exhaled as if on cue. The tension—still sharp and fresh—was muffled beneath the orchestral pretense. A few began murmuring again. As if the last twenty minutes had been a dream best forgotten. The court was good at that. Priscilla stood still in the tide of renewed laughter, flutes, and clinking goblets. Her gaze fixed not on the stage, not on the nobles. But to the edge of the hall. Leaning casually against a marble column just shy of the archway’s shadows, half-lit by the golden glow of chandelier light and half-swallowed by distance. No one dared go near him—not yet. Not after that. And yet, even in exile from the revelry, he didn’t look isolated. His arms folded loosely across his chest, weight rested on one foot, the air of someone not banished—but observing. Like the court was just another page in a book he already knew the ending to. As if he’d been waiting for her to look. Her breath stuttered. A single, unhurried blink of one eye. Nothing exaggerated. Nothing crude. Pure, distilled audacity in a flick of a lash. Her fingers tightened on her goblet. For a terrifying moment, she thought she’d drop the damn glass. ’He really is someone strange.’ Because he wasn’t smirking. Like none of what had just unfolded—Rowen’s fury, Lucien’s silence, the full dissection of a political bloodline—had bruised him in the slightest. She could feel the corner of her mouth— But the beginning of something dangerous. And before she could stop herself— Because Lucavion hadn’t just dismantled her brother. He had—somehow, impossibly—disarmed her. Lucavion sipped from his glass, letting the fine wine linger on his tongue—not for taste, but for texture. It was too sweet, too indulgent. Nobility liked their vices soft and saccharine. He preferred something with bite. Still, the weight of it was satisfying. It grounded him. Around him, the music swelled like polite denial. A lullaby for scandal. The nobles danced with careful steps and false laughter, pretending nothing had happened. Pretending Lucien hadn’t been peeled back like gilded fruit and left raw before them. Lucavion leaned slightly against the marble column, the coolness of the stone pressing into his shoulder. His gaze drifted lazily across the hall—not watching, not judging. The silence within him stretched like silk—clean, untarnished, victorious. [Now you have done it. Was that really worth it?]