The infirmary door opened and Bellatrix Drakenfell entered carrying Onyx in one arm, a bouquet of ivory peonies in the other, and enough audacity to fuel a small continent.
Petra followed two steps behind, holding a box wrapped in Nightspire silk so dark it looked like liquid shadow, tied with a bow made from Valdressian ribbon that cost more per inch than most families spent on dinner per month. Avalon was perched on her other arm in a new tuxedo, midnight blue with silver thread detailing along the lapels, his scales buffed to a luminous steel-blue that caught every sconce in the hallway and threw it back in fractals.
The room went still.
Every man in the chamber, and there were too goddamn many of them, processed the visual in his own way and at his own speed.
Dexmon's brow furrowed so hard it could have cracked walnuts.
