The morning air in the breakfast hall was thick enough to choke on. Lord Vane's suggestion—to move the wedding forward—hung over the table like a guillotine blade.
The clatter of silverware died. The council members and high nobles leaned in, their eyes darting between the three figures at the high table. It was a moment of pure, predatory observation. They were looking for a crack in the foundation, a sign that the "Anchor's Restoration" was as fragile as the glass crown Elias had discarded the night before.
Cassian did not react immediately. He didn't slam his hand on the table or roar in defense. Instead, he leaned back in his heavy oak chair, his posture radiating a terrifying, controlled stillness. He looked like the lion he was—patient, lethal, and entirely unimpressed.
He fixed his gaze on Vane until the older man began to shift in his seat.
