The Prince's gathering was not a party. It was a performance, and every noble in attendance was both actor and critic. The ballroom glittered, a cavern of light and sound where crystal chandeliers dripped fire onto marble floors polished to a mirror sheen. Laughter echoed, high and brittle, like glass shattering in slow motion. I moved through it all, a ghost in my own skin.
Darius was a pillar of cold authority near the center of the room, conversing with a minor duke. He hadn't looked at me since we arrived, but I felt his attention like a physical pressure, a constant, weighty reminder of the role I was meant to play.
I accepted a glass of champagne from a passing servant, the bubbles rising like tiny, captured screams. I didn't drink. I just held it, a prop in my own play. My gaze swept the room, cataloging faces, noting positions, searching for the one viper I knew was hiding in this nest of snakes.
Then I saw him.
