Arik Oberon Lyon was standing near the royal orbit, black and gold beneath the ether light, surrounded by enough political theater to suffocate a lesser man and yet somehow looking as if the entire gala had been arranged for him to tolerate at his leisure. King George was speaking. One of the blond omegas smiled at the correct angle. Another adjusted his sleeve as if the movement had been rehearsed by three generations of ambitious mothers.
Arik, however, was looking toward the balcony doors.
Toward Liam.
Liam looked away first because he had dignity, survival instincts, and no interest in adding 'foreign crown prince's unexplained attention' to the list of things Felix could use to ruin his evening.
"Tell your prince," Liam said, still facing the glass, "that if he wants relief for his people, Rex must make the request look domestic, preferably nothing technical. He knows the location and has the brain to make it right."
"I will."
"And tell him not to send anyone dramatic."
Mezos paused.
Liam finally looked at him.
"What?"
"I'm deciding whether that excludes the prince."
"It does."
"Unfortunately, I'm not certain he will agree."
Liam stared at him.
Then, slowly, "Your prince is the dramatic one?"
Mezos's expression became very diplomatic.
"Maybe."
Liam absorbed that and decided he disliked it intensely.
"Fine. Then tell your prince that if he arrives at a raw ether source dressed like an imperial omen, I will personally pretend I have never heard of blue ether in my life."
"I'll soften the wording."
"Don't."
Mezos inclined his head, but there was amusement hiding at the edge of his mouth. "I'll deliver it accurately enough."
"Perfect."
Liam opened the door, and the warm, perfumed breath of the gala rolled over him at once. Music, silk, overheated wardlight, noble chatter, and the subtle chemical aggression of too many ranked pheromones layered under etiquette. He hated it immediately, which was reassuring. It meant the room had not improved in his absence.
Before he stepped fully inside, Mezos spoke again.
"Liam."
He paused.
"If Felix moves before your family reaches you?"
Liam's fingers tightened once around the edge of the door.
Then he smiled.
It hurt.
He did it anyway.
"Then I'll make him regret choosing an audience."
Mezos studied him for one second, perhaps weighing whether that was bravado or operational planning.
Apparently, he decided correctly.
"Good," he said.
Liam gave him a narrow look. "You are very strange."
"I serve Arik Oberon Lyon. It becomes necessary."
That, annoyingly, sounded plausible.
Liam stepped back into the reception hall.
The room noticed him return because rooms like this always noticed when a person they had tried to categorize left and re-entered under less cooperative circumstances. A few eyes slid toward the balcony doors, then away. One of the blond omegas near the royal platform watched him with polite curiosity. A minister's wife whispered something behind her fan.
Felix noticed too.
The old man's gaze found Liam from across the hall with the precision of a hook thrown from shadow.
Liam met it.
Then he turned away first, not in retreat, but with such clean dismissal that even from a distance Felix would know it had been deliberate.
Liam was still deciding whether to return toward the western colonnade or take a more visible path through the center of the hall when the atmosphere changed.
It happened at the far entrance beyond the eastern columns.
Mirelle Armstrong entered first.
She wore deep burgundy so dark it nearly drank the ether light, with cream silk at her throat and jewels arranged with murderous restraint. Her posture was perfect, her expression pleasant enough to terrify anyone with a functioning memory, and her eyes moved across the hall only once before finding Liam with the precision of a weapon locking onto a target.
Behind her came Enia.
Liam's mother did not storm.
That would have been too generous to everyone hoping for gossip.
She entered with perfect posture, her dark hair swept back from a face that had always looked too calm before catastrophe, red eyes bright beneath the gloss of aristocratic discipline. The Armstrong blood showed there in the eyes, in the angle of the mouth, in the way she could make stillness feel like a verdict. She wore cream with burgundy detailing, the colors softer on her than on Mirelle and somehow more dangerous for it.
Henry walked at her side.
Liam's stepfather was tall, broad-shouldered, and composed in the manner of men who had learned that loving an Armstrong woman meant developing both excellent reflexes and a durable sense of self-preservation. His formal coat was dark, understated, and cut well enough to suggest wealth without desperation. His hand rested lightly at Enia's back.
Liam saw that and almost smiled.
Henry already knew.
Or at least, Henry knew enough to be prepared to catch fire before it reached the drapes.
The rest of the family followed in a composed wave of burgundy, cream, and expensive disapproval. Aunts, cousins, and distant relations were brought close tonight by purpose rather than sentiment. They entered with the serene brutality of people who had not come to ask permission to exist in the room.
The Armstrongs had arrived.
The good family.
Liam felt something inside his chest loosen by half an inch.
Then Enia saw his face.
Not in full, not at first. Colette's creams had done remarkable work, and the ether-light was forgiving from a distance. But mothers, unfortunately, were not bound by cosmetic laws. Enia's gaze moved over him with terrifying care as he approached, taking in the set of his jaw, the tension near the mouth, the slight swelling beneath the treatment, and the way he carried his expression too still.
She stopped.
The whole Armstrong line seemed to slow behind her.
Liam crossed the final few steps with what he considered exceptional dignity for a man walking toward an emotional execution.
"Mother," he said quietly.
Enia lifted one hand.
Her fingers touched his jaw without adding to the pain. She was too careful for that. She touched the edge of his face as if confirming what her eyes had already told her, and the restraint in that movement was worse than any dramatic gasp could have been.
"My son," she said.
Her voice was soft.
Felix, across the room, should have been afraid of it.
Then her gaze moved from the side of his face to his mouth, to the faint shadow beneath the treatment, to the spot where one slap had landed, and then the other.
Her expression did not change.
That was how Liam knew the evening had become dangerous.
"Who?" she asked.
Liam inhaled.
Mirelle closed her eyes for one second, as if privately praying for restraint and receiving no divine cooperation.
"Enia," Henry said softly, his hand moving over the waist of his wife.
"Liam Sienna Canmore, who did this?" She asked again, her tone icy.