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“Right.” He nudges my shoulder with his. “Concert. And if it gets too much, you give me the sign and we leave.”
At the front of the hall, the Imperial continues speaking beneath the gold-lit arches while men in dark suits drift between the tables with champagne glasses balanced elegantly between their fingers.
“Good Light,” Damaris mutters under his breath, eyes flicking around the hall. “These people look like they bury bodies for fun.”
He’s not wrong. I’ve never seen this amount of jewelry and tattoos combined, and part of me already wants to crawl beneath the nearest table rather than perform for these people.
What unsettles me most isn’t the money. It’s how comfortable they all look together, like every person in this room belongs here except us.
These are the kind of people who own entire planets like Sero and Düren while the rest of us struggle just to afford food.
“You still haven’t told me how you got invited to this thing,” I mutter.
Damaris grins beside me. “What, you think they’d host the star musician of the evening without his emotional support roommate?”
“Dama…”
He lifts both hands. “Relax. I have connections now.”
Of course he does. Half the academy seems determined to adopt him.
Damaris’s expression softens. “I think people are starting to realize we come as a package deal.”
“Well,” I mutter, “they’re probably right about that.”
Although tonight, I look like I’m one of them. Glancing down at the suit, I’m still not sure I made the right decision. The suit Ciaran gave me is cut like it was designed just for me, but it feels like a defeat that I actually chose to wear it for him.
Not for him, I correct, dragging my gaze away from the dark green fabric. For myself.
That’s right. The Noctis that stands in the middle of the stage, shiny and beautiful and waiting to be touched by me, is the only reason I came here tonight.
“Speaking of the devil,” Damaris mutters.
I turn just as Halvern starts crossing the hall toward us with a champagne glass in one hand and that polished half-smile stretched across his face.
“Rowan, good evening.” His gaze flicks toward Damaris. “You again. And you are…”
“Invited,” Damaris deadpans. “By Lucan Virel.”
Halvern’s smile flickers before his attention settles fully back on me, eyes traveling slowly over the suit. “Well.” He lifts his glass. “You certainly made an effort to dress appropriately for tonight, Rowan.”
Grinding my jaw, I give him a polite smile. “I feel honored you thought I was good enough to play.”
Beside me, Damaris snorts. “Good enough. Dude, you’re like, the best player.”
“That title has already been given to Angela Virel, I’m afraid,” Halvern retorts, gaze drifting Damaris’s way. “Stay close. I’ll let you know when it’s time to begin.”
When he turns toward the heart of the room, Damaris rolls his eyes dramatically. “Such an asshole.”
I can’t help but grin, but the grin freezes on my face the moment I catch sight of Ciaran.
He stands near the entrance to the hall dressed entirely in black, one hand tucked lazily into his pocket while the other hangs low at his side around a champagne glass. Dark ink slips out from under the sharp line of his cuff, and on a whim I imagine what it would be like to lick it off.
The memory of last night hits me so hard it’s almost embarrassing.
Safe. Safe, with his hand on my head and my chin burrowed against him.
“You coming?” Damaris asks from where he’s advanced closer to the stage. He frowns when he sees my gaze, then follows my eyes with an exaggerated, “Oh.”
