The invitation lay on the polished mahogany of my dresser, a stark, white rectangle against the dark wood. It was no longer just a piece of paper; it was a declaration. A summons to a battlefield where the weapons would be words, and the casualties, reputations.
The thought should have terrified me. Instead, it focused me, sharpening the edges of my mind until the world felt clearer, more defined.
It wasn't fear exactly. It was anticipation, sharp and restless, the kind that came before something irreversible, when stepping forward meant there was no clean way back.
The soft knock on my door was expected. "Enter," I called out, not looking away from the window.
Eliot stepped inside, his arms laden with a collection of garment bags. He moved with his usual quiet efficiency, laying them out on my bed with the reverence of a priest preparing for a ritual.
"My lord," he said, his tone carefully neutral. "The Duke has commissioned the appropriate attire for the Solstice Ball."
