The wrought-iron garden chairs at the Avery estate looked elegant enough to belong in a magazine, but sitting on them for more than five minutes felt like a form of punishment. Cherion sat slightly off-center at the pristine white-clothed table, leaning back with an expression that screamed I would rather be literally anywhere else right now.
Around him, the capital's elite drifted from group to group in neat little circles, chatting at the speed of a dying snail. Somewhere near the marble fountains, a harpist gently plucked away at a melody, but even that wasn't enough to drown out the endless stream of upper-class gossip.
Cherion grabbed one of the tiny frosted pastries from a silver dessert stand, popped it into his mouth, and chewed slowly, treating the entire event like a mandatory corporate networking session he desperately wanted to leave early.
