Andrea Vale had been seated at the back.
Not the true back, of course.
The empire still had enough sense not to insult him openly where three continents could notice. But it was the sort of placement that pretended to be diplomatic while making its meaning perfectly plain.
Andrea sat with the Draxil delegation and smiled because he had been raised well enough to know that beautiful things should never look angry unless someone has earned the privilege of seeing it.
Around him, the ceremony hall glittered in white silk, gold banners, polished stone, and flowers arranged with enough precision to make the entire space look expensive at first glance.
At second glance, it was cheap.
Of course it was.
Dean Fitzgeralt had chosen it.
Or had approved it.
Or had smiled at it with that unpleasant little expression of his, and everyone had bent over themselves, pretending taste had descended from the heavens.
