There it is. The insult.
“Your family has always struggled with…control,” they add.
The words land heavier. They are directed at more than just me. They are directed at my father, Maltos. House Dzaltos. Our entire legacy.
The room stills. Not silent. But listening. Watching. Waiting.
Kholara doesn’t move. But his attention is locked on me. This is it. The trap. Clean. Simple. Elegant.
React—
And I prove them right.
Don’t—
And I look weak.
I understand the game. I always have. The question is?—
Do I play it?
I step forward. Close enough now that I can see the faint pulse at their throat. Hear the slight catch in their breath.
“Careful,” I say quietly.
The word lands between us.
“You’re close to saying something you can’t take back.”
Their chin lifts.
“I already have.”
Good.
That makes this easier. My fingers curl slightly. The angle is perfect. The distance, ideal. I could end it now. Right here. In front of everyone.
I know exactly how it would go. The moment of shock. The silence. The aftermath. I know the consequences.
I see them clearly.
And I am prepared to do it anyway.
5
LYRIA
By the time the gathering settles fully into the gardens, the space no longer resembles anything that could honestly be called alive, because whatever it once was—soil, root, patient growth coaxed upward by careful hands—has been stripped down and remade into something controlled, something curated through repetition and quiet domination until every hedge is carved into obedience, every surface polished into a reflection of ownership rather than beauty, and even the air itself feels altered, thick with layered perfumes and the heat of bodies pressed too close together, carrying an expectation that settles against the skin and refuses to lift.
I move through it the way I always do, quietly and with deliberate control, my steps measured not only by the balance of the tray in my hands but by the invisible boundaries that define this place more rigidly than any wall, because there are currents here—unspoken and absolute—that divide those who exist from those who are permitted to be seen, those who speak from those who serve, those who command from those who endure, and I have learned them well enough to move between them withoutdrawing attention, without leaving anything behind that might be noticed later.
“Careful with that,” someone mutters as I pass, their gaze fixed on the crystal rather than on me, and I don’t bother looking up as I answer, keeping my voice low and contained so it doesn’t travel farther than necessary.
“I’ve got it,” I say, adjusting my grip slightly as the tray shifts, the liquid inside the glasses whispering against their sides in a way that feels louder than it should, and for a brief, tightening moment I imagine what would happen if I lost control of it—the spill, the stain, the sudden shift of attention—but my wrist corrects before the imbalance can become visible, smoothing everything back into place before it can become a problem.
The scent rising from the glasses is sharp and bitter with an artificial sweetness layered beneath it, something designed to impress rather than nourish, and it clings to the back of my throat in a way that makes me want to swallow it down and forget it exists.
“Left,” another servant breathes as I approach, and I shift without hesitation, slipping between two nobles whose conversation continues uninterrupted as I pass between them, their voices threading above me as though I am not there at all.
