Rowen didn’t answer immediately. He just stared at Lucavion—unmoving, unreadable. That same noble stillness, the kind that masks storms behind steel-gray eyes and centuries of ritual. The kind that says: I won’t be the first to blink. But the question hung there, caught between the three of them like a wire strung taut. Varen hadn’t asked with judgment. That was the part that made it sting. There was no accusation in his tone, only clarity. The kind of question that came from someone who had seen it, logged it, and couldn’t leave it alone. He watched Rowen, the way a gambler watches the next card drawn—not impatient, not eager. Just ready. He breathed in slowly, then exhaled as though weighing the cost of truth against its necessity. His voice, when it came, was low. Stripped of pageantry. "...Because she was there." Lucavion’s fingers drummed once against the rim of his glass. He let Rowen’s words settle in the space between them like dust over a buried blade. Because she was there. His eyes narrowed—not in scorn, not in surprise. Just in that quiet, precise way Lucavion did when something fell exactly where he expected it to. He tilted his head, gaze never leaving Rowen’s. "So that’s what we’re calling it." But Lucavion saw the shift in his jaw. That fraction of tension behind the stillness. He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table’s edge, voice smooth—too smooth. "You know," he murmured, "at that time, I was ready." Rowen didn’t respond. Lucavion’s eyes glinted. "I felt it. The moment your stance changed. Just a twitch. A flicker of your grip. You made the decision. It was clean. Efficient. A noble’s execution." "But you didn’t move." He straightened again, his smirk flickering into something unreadable. "Because the little princess intervened." The phrase cut sharper than any accusation. No edge. Just fact. Laid bare like steel on velvet. Rowen’s lips parted—then closed. "You would’ve done it," he said quietly, "if it had been just you and me." No drama in his tone. No bravado. "But Priscilla spoke up. And suddenly... there was a court watching. A narrative to preserve. And maybe—just maybe—you weren’t sure if killing me in front of her was worth what came after." Rowen’s gaze darkened—not with anger. With something closer to realization. Lucavion didn’t press further. Because that was the truth of it. He remembered that moment vividly—the breath between words, the shift in the air, the crown prince’s command still ringing in the hall. But Lucavion had felt it. And he had braced himself. Fully. Unflinchingly. Because if Rowen Drayke had come for him that day... Lucavion would’ve met him head-on. But would it have been clean? Lucavion knew that, too. It would’ve been a mess. Not because Lucavion lacked the skill to match him—but because the clash would’ve shattered more than just steel. Protocol. Appearances. Maybe even the Tower’s illusion of control. It would’ve drawn blood from the very threads holding the court together. And that—more than Priscilla, more than doubt—was why Rowen hadn’t acted. Because the moment his blade moved, the lines between loyalty and politics would’ve blurred. And Rowen Drayke didn’t make messy kills. Not unless someone else signed the aftermath. Across the table, Varen’s gaze had been locked in silence—watching, calculating—but now it sharpened. His fingers flexed against the rim of his glass before he looked at Rowen, eyes narrowing. His tongue met his teeth in a slow, deliberate sound. "Just like a lapdog." The words weren’t shouted. They didn’t need to be. They landed hard—flat and cold. Without venom. Without emphasis. Just truth, dressed in contempt. Rowen turned, the movement sharp. Controlled. But the glare he leveled at Varen— That wasn’t restrained. The room hadn’t noticed, not yet. The banquet buzzed on, nobles sipping wine and whispering schemes. But at this table, something taut was unraveling. Sharper than any blade on his hip. "Drakov," he said, the name cutting with just the right weight, "do you want to lose your wings again?" For a beat, neither moved. Tense. Sharp. Threaded with old blood and colder truths. No one at this table was under any illusion of alliance. They hadn’t come here as comrades. They came because the air demanded it. Because the Empire was shifting, and the ones who shaped it had started circling each other like wolves that hadn’t yet decided if they would share the kill—or rip each other apart. Lucavion, still leaning back in his chair, let his gaze flick between them. Varen. Rowen. Not physically, anyway. Varen’s jaw was set now, his eyes gleaming with something hotter than pride—something rooted deep in memory. His voice, when it came, was iron. "Then come take them," he said, low and dangerous. "If you have the capability." "But maybe wait until your master arrives. Wouldn’t want you acting without permission again." Not like a blade this time. Like a slap across a name. Lucavion felt it. So did Rowen. And just as the last syllable hung in the air, crisp and crackling— A silence swept across the hall. Not loud. Not sudden. Like a string being pulled through the weave of every noble conversation. Lucavion didn’t need to turn. The rhythm was too familiar. That slow, deliberate gait. Measured, elegant. Like he wasn’t walking, but arriving. The great doors opened not with thunder—but with elegance. The music didn’t pause, but it softened, as if the notes themselves bent in deference to the presence stepping through. Golden-haired, crimson-eyed, sculpted from the same unforgiving perfection that defined the Crown—but now, strangely, not rigid. And not the brittle, glassy smile of politics. No—it was smooth. Controlled. Just wide enough to imply warmth, just subtle enough to leave doubt. A smile practiced in the mirror of a thousand formal gatherings, but rarely used with intent. Tonight, it was different. The room turned to him almost instinctively. Like planets caught in orbit. Whispers stilled. Spines straightened. Those who had been pretending to forget the last confrontation now remembered it with renewed clarity. Lucien greeted a nearby noble with a wordless nod—then another with a soft murmur of acknowledgment. He didn’t stop for conversation. Not this time. Not now. Because his eyes—smiling though they were—were locked ahead. The bastard didn’t rise. Just sat there at the table, one elbow resting lazily near a half-finished glass, as if the very prince of the Empire wasn’t walking toward him across a floor paved in breathless silence. There was no defiance in Lucavion’s stillness. He had been expecting this. Lucien stopped before the table. Rowen and Varen watched with the stillness of men who knew the weight of certain moments. But they didn’t speak. Not yet. Lucien looked down at Lucavion. A motion that was not ceremonial. Not court-mandated. Just... real. Lucavion’s brows lifted, if only faintly. "My apologies," Lucien said, voice smooth, clear. Not cold. Not warm. Just... deliberate. "I left earlier without offering proper courtesy." Lucavion didn’t move. "I find," he continued, "that it’s best to clear one’s head before making permanent impressions. Especially when dealing with... unexpected variables." There was no venom in the words. But there was weight. "And now?" Lucavion asked, voice low. Lucien’s eyes didn’t waver. "Now," he said, "I would like to greet you properly."