The banquet hall gleamed with firelight and false smiles.

Caelira stood behind Therion’s chair in silence, dressed in black silk, her collar fastened tighter than usual. Her face was unreadable. Her body still ached, but she held her posture like a statue carved for obedience.

Therion didn’t glance at her.

He hadn’t since last night.

And neither of them had spoken about it.

The nobles laughed, drank, and whispered.

Virela sat three seats away, lips painted blood-red, dress ...