The private waiting lounge assigned to the paternal households was quieter than it should have been.
Otto stood near the window, already dressed for the ceremony, formal and severe in dark imperial tailoring softened only by the quiet gold at his cuffs. He looked like an emperor pretending to be merely a father for a few minutes before history dragged him back into position.
Dax sat in one of the armchairs with the quiet danger of a king who had outlived several enemies and learned to look bored while considering murder. At sixty, he remained striking in the way certain men only became sharper with age, white-blond hair falling neatly around his shoulders, violet eyes calm, half-lidded, and profoundly untrustworthy.
Trevor stood with his arms folded, dressed in black, silent, and displeased with everything on principle.
Dean was being dressed elsewhere.
Lucas was with him, and that was the only thought that kept Trevor in that room.
