Faces turned as I passed. Some were curious, some wary, some outright hostile. I caught glimpses of familiar profiles from my former life: men I’d drafted policy briefs for, women I’d watched negotiate trade concessions, clerks I’d shared stiff drinks with after long sessions.
None of them had expected the dead son of a minister of parliament to show up at their mixer.
Tamsin caught my eye from across the room, near one of the brass support columns. There was a question in her gaze.
Now?
I gave the slightest nod.
She raised her hand, just enough for Elias to see. He angled closer to a cluster of uniformed guards by the wall, saying something quietly, requiring them to lean in. Griff drifted toward the opposite side, near the small, raised dais at the front of the hall where speeches were usually given. Nox slid between groups, somehow ending up exactly where he needed to be without anyone clocking how he got there. Eamon stayed near the side door where Zara and Sera would be waiting with the others, his posture loose, hands folded behind his back. Someone’s idea of a proper physician at a political gathering.
Convincing, really.
I strode to the front of the room.
The dais wasn’t much, two steps up onto a slightly higher section of floor, a lectern positioned so whoever spoke could look out over the bodies and brass with appropriate gravitas. A pair of guards stood nearby, more ornament than deterrent.
One of them frowned as he noticed my trajectory. He stepped toward me, hand lifting.
“Sir, that area is?—”
Griff bumped into him.
It looked accidental. A slight stumble, a muttered apology. But his hand landed on the guard’s arm with enough weight to redirect him half a step off course. By the time the man had steadied himself and realized what had happened, I was already past him.
The second guard moved to intercept me.
Nox appeared at his elbow, smiling like they were old friends. “They’re calling for more wine in the back,” he said, tone just urgent enough. “You might want to sort it before someone important decides their glass has been empty for far too long.”
The guard hesitated, caught between orders and social pressure.
“Go,” Nox said, grin widening. “Trust me.”
He went.
By the time anyone in the room realized what I was doing, I was already on the dais with my hand on the lectern.
The hum of conversation dipped.
I cleared my throat once and the nearest conversations faltered.
“Good evening,” I said.
The words carried loud and clear across the room. Heads turned. Laughter died mid-breath. The murmurs didn’t stop, but they changed, picking up my name and passing it around like a contagion.
I waited until the noise settled into a low, expectant buzz.
My father had pushed his way closer to the front. He stood just below the dais now, looking up at me with a face that belonged to two men at once: the one who’d raised me to serve this room, and the one who’d signed off on my death believing the lie.
“Bishop,” he said again. Less sure this time.
I met his eyes. “You were told I died,” I said, not to him now but to the room. “You were told it was a security incident. That my death was an unavoidable tragedy.”
Several heads nodded reflexively, like they were agreeing with their own memories.
“That was obviously not true,” I said.
The quiet deepened.
