Orveil’s guest wing had never been so full — or so quiet.

  The great salon was a mosaic of broken conversation and twitching teacups. Courtiers who had never so much as acknowledged each other were now clumped together like a herd of deer too stunned to flee. Murmured speculation thickened the air like incense.

  Was it real?

  Was it staged?

  He’s a wizard. He could fake it.

  But why would he? And that noise—

  She’s so… quiet usually. You’d never think—

  Did you hear the vase break?

  That was a scream, not a vase.

  The betrothal was forgotten. No one mentioned Lady Selmine. Not even her mother.

  The musicians had gone home in confusion. The kitchen staff whispered of curses. One steward reportedly had a nosebleed halfway through the night and blamed it on excessive arousal-by-proxy.

  The only one not speaking?

  The Duchess.

  She entered the salon like a gust of cold mountain air — poised, unsmiling, completely unfazed.

  The room fell utterly silent.

  Fran’s gown was charcoal grey. Crisp. Unwrinkled. Modest. Hair neatly braided, hands gloved. No perfume. No jewelry. Only the faintest trace of lavender soap and supreme indifference.

  She didn’t look at anyone.

  She walked to the long breakfast table — past rustling silks and darting eyes — and took the center seat.

  She poured herself a cup of tea.

  No one moved.

  She buttered a piece of toast with clinical precision.

  No one breathed.

  Then — as if she were alone in a field and not surrounded by predators wearing pearls — she took a bite.

  Lady Marellin dropped her spoon.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Baroness Thalor stared at her own plate as if expecting it to burst into flames.

  One of the younger nobles — a boy who had asked the Duchess’s opinion on trade policy just yesterday — physically turned his chair away.

  Fran didn’t acknowledge any of them.

  She ate.

  Sipped her tea.

  Lifted her eyes just once — and they all looked down.

  Then the door opened again.

  Gale Dekarios entered like a man who had done exactly what everyone thought he’d done, and had absolutely no interest in confirming or denying it.

  He looked tired — not ruined, not wild, but gently disassembled. Like someone who had either cast a very complicated spell or been enthusiastically ridden into the astral plane.

  His coat was fastened wrong. His boots mismatched. His hair? Too neat to be accidental, too imperfect to be intentional.

  He paused, assessed the silence, and walked with steady steps toward the table.

  The eyes of Orveil followed every inch of him.

  He reached the Duchess’s seat, inclined his head with the gravity of ritual.

  “Your Grace.”

  Fran, mid-sip of tea, did not look up.

  “You’re late.”

  A pause.

  He smiled — faint, dry, respectful.

  “You were early.”

  And then, without another word, he took the seat beside her.

  The silence around the table had thickened into something textural. Like a spell. Or a dare.

  Fran sipped her tea again — calm, methodical, utterly detached.

  Beside her, Gale was smoothly gliding a knife through a poached pear. He looked relaxed. Content, even. Smug, if you knew where to look.

  The others stared.

  Someone coughed.

  Lady Marellin cleared her throat.

  No response.

  Then, from farther down the table — voice high and curious: “It must have been a very... energetic evening.”

  Several nobles twitched.

  Fran didn’t look up. Didn’t flinch. She simply folded a piece of toast in half, placed it on her plate, and took another slow sip of tea.

  Gale didn’t stop eating. “We believe in staying active,” he said mildly, not looking up.

  A few gasps. One faint cough.

  Baron Marseton — silver-bearded, eyes gleaming like a child at a puppet show — leaned forward. “Your Grace,” he said, far too casual, “I do hope the room wasn’t... damaged?”

  Fran set her cup down. Carefully. Still no eye contact.

  “House Thareth,” she said, tone cool and clipped, “is accustomed to the cost of hosting guests.”

  A pause.

  Gale didn’t smile. He simply adjusted his fork.

  “I offered to reinforce the headboard,” he added. “But Her Grace prefers a more honest architectural challenge.”

  There was a sound from the back of the room that might have been someone choking.

  Fran reached for a blackberry. Popped it in her mouth. Chewed.

  Not. A. Glance.

  Then, from further down the table — a younger noble, trying too hard to sound amused:

  “But surely it wasn’t really like that. I mean... surely that was spellwork.”

  A beat of silence.

  Gale looked up. His eyes met the young man’s. Just once.

  Then he said, voice calm and devastating: “If I’d used illusion magic, it would have been louder.”

  The table went still.

  Fran picked up her spoon.

  “You’re making them nervous,” she murmured, not quite to him.

  Gale, still looking at the noble, replied without moving his mouth: “They started it.”

  The questions dried up after that.

  One by one, forks clinked gently on plates. Conversations turned elsewhere — slowly, awkwardly, like a ship dragged off course.

  No one asked again.

  No one wanted to.

  Because if the Duchess of Foher could sit in the wreckage of a public scandal and not blink...

  And if her arcane advisor could casually suggest that they had not yet shown the full range of their talents...

  Then what else might they be capable of?

  And worse —

  What if they enjoyed it?