The room had tilted into noise without warning.

Aline paused mid-sentence and lifted her chin, eyes narrowing toward the far end of the hall.

Across polished marble and clustered silk, a small knot of people had formed, tight enough to draw attention, loose enough to pretend it was accidental.

Aline leaned forward, craning her neck toward the disturbance across the room.

"Is that Thalverin's assistant professor?" she asked, the question shaped for its answer.

Vencian followed her finger.

He saw Roselys first, standing rigid amid a half-circle of women, her gown immaculate, her posture exact. Beside her stood another woman, close enough to invade space without touching.

"Yes," he said. "That's her."

The woman speaking to Roselys wore her smile like an ornament chosen for visibility. It was practiced, careful, and carried the faint warmth of polished metal.

"I only meant," she was saying, voice pitched to travel, "that these gatherings can feel overwhelming when one is unfamiliar with certain… expectations."

A pause, filled with soft laughter from behind her shoulder.

Roselys did not answer.

The woman continued, her head tilting as if offering sympathy.

"And of course, scholarship draws all sorts. Some people arrive through doors others never think to open."

Another ripple of laughter.

Vencian listened long enough to understand what was being said without hearing a single direct strike.

Outcast.

Ill fit.

A presence invited by accident rather than right.

The woman's gaze slid briefly over Roselys's hair, pale to the edge of gray, then returned to her face with exaggerated care.

"You must find it difficult," she added, "to carry such… associations. Some families leave impressions that follow their children. It's unfortunate."

The word unfortunate landed like a courtesy bow.

Vencian leaned closer to Aline.

"Who is she?"

Aline's mouth flattened.

"Nanis," she said. "Larion's real daughter."

That explained the confidence.

"Public event," Vencian said. "Does she usually choose her moments this way?"

Aline exhaled through her nose.

"She chooses any moment she's given."

The woman's voice rose again, sharper now, its softness thinning.

"And there are old beliefs, of course," Nanis said lightly. "About certain looks. Certain colors. They say misfortune favors patterns."

Her eyes flicked, once, to Roselys's pink irises.

The women around her laughed more openly now.

Vencian felt the shape of it settle.

Roselys remained silent.

Her gaze was lowered. Both hands were clenched into her skirts, fingers buried in fabric heavy enough to bruise knuckles. From where he stood, Vencian could see her shoulders, straight and held, though he could not see her face.

Aline murmured something beside him, words sliding past his attention.

The circle tightened.

Nanis leaned in, voice dropping, still audible.

"Of course, these things fade when one knows where one belongs."

That was when he moved.

He crossed the space without hurry, shoes whispering over marble. Voices shifted as he approached, curiosity blooming ahead of him.

Nanis was mid-sentence when he stopped just behind her shoulder.

"I'm sorry," Vencian said, voice calm, pitched to carry. "I must have misheard."

The word cut the air cleanly.

Nanis turned, surprise flickering before it smoothed into courtesy.

Vencian inclined his head, expression polite to the point of bland.

"I thought you were speaking of appearances," he continued. "It sounded as though you meant to include mine."

Her smile tightened.

"I wouldn't presume—"

"The hair," he said, touching his own platinum strands with two fingers, casual. "The eyes. They do tends to draw comment. Sedron influence, I've been told."

A beat.

Several women glanced at him, then back to Nanis.

"If that's the case," Vencian went on, "I apologize for intruding with such an inconvenience. These traits do travel."

The apology landed sideways, its weight wrong for the words that carried it.

Silence spread, thin and immediate.

Nanis recovered quickly.

"Lord Vicorra," she said, voice cooled into formality. "I was speaking in generalities. Surely you understand the value of observation in academic circles."

"Of course," Vencian replied. "Observation requires care."

Her eyes sharpened.

"And context."

"Always," he said.

The women around them shifted, laughter gone, replaced by careful interest.

Nanis straightened.

"I trust," she said, "that personal sensitivities will not overshadow the evening. This is a celebration."

"Then I'm glad," Vencian replied, "that nothing personal was said."

The space between them held.

Nanis inclined her head, just enough to acknowledge equals, then stepped back.

"Enjoy the festivities, Lord Vicorra."

She turned away, the circle loosening as if released from tension by mutual agreement.

Conversation resumed in cautious murmurs.

Vencian remained where he was, expression blank, gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance.

The murmurs resumed around him, cautious and speculative. Someone laughed at the far end of the room. The music swelled again, filling the space where tension had been.

Vencian exhaled slowly.

When he finally glanced to the side, Roselys was gone.

He caught a glimpse of her back, gray hair disappearing through the archway that led to the gardens. The door swung shut behind her, muffling the noise of the hall.

Vencian stood there a moment longer, then turned and walked in the opposite direction.

---

The gardens were quieter.

Vencian moved along the stone path, hands in his pockets, gaze tracing the hedges that lined the walkway. Lanterns hung from iron posts, their light soft and uneven. The music from the hall reached him faintly, muted by distance and walls.

He had done what was expected. Congratulated the crown prince. Spoke briefly with the bride-to-be. Stood through conversations that required nothing but presence and polite noises.

The evening had been exhausting in ways that had nothing to do with effort.

Now all that remained was the meeting with Duke Hadethon Dawnforge. Then he could leave.

A shimmer appeared beside him.

Quenya materialized, floating at shoulder height, her expression curious.

"Why didn't you follow her?" she asked.

Vencian glanced at her. "Follow who?"

"Roselys." Quenya tilted her head. "She left. You saw her leave. You could have—"

"I have a deal with Larion," Vencian interrupted. "Stay away from his daughter. That was the condition. Beside it would have given other implications that neither of us wants to deal with."

"You intervened earlier."

"That's different."

"How?"

Vencian frowned. "That girl was being loud. It was getting annoying. I said what I thought needed saying. It had nothing to do with Roselys."

Quenya studied him, silent.

Vencian looked away, jaw tight.

The gardens stretched ahead, empty and still. The air carried the faint scent of night-blooming flowers, sweet and cloying. It mixed poorly with the lingering taste of wine on his tongue.

He felt suffocated.

The entire evening had been like that. Surrounded by people, their voices layered over one another, their attention pressing against him from all sides. Most of it his own doing. The game. The council meeting. The scene with Nanis.

What stayed with him was Roselys's silence, the way she had let Nanis speak without resistance, and he could not tell whether it was restraint, habit, or something she had learned long before tonight.

He had drawn every eye in the hall without meaning to.

Quenya drifted closer. "You're upset."

"I'm fine."

"You don't look fine."

Vencian stopped walking. He stared at the path ahead, hands still buried in his pockets.

The other motive. The council member tied to Pentarch. He had spent the entire evening failing to act on it. Watching faces, listening to fragments of conversation, waiting for something that never materialized.

And now Roselys was gone.

He exhaled, the sound sharp in the quiet.

"I wasted the evening," he said.

Quenya floated in front of him, blocking his view. "You did some pretty cool things though."

"That wasn't the goal."

"Does it matter?"

Vencian met her gaze. "Yes."

She said nothing.

He turned, looking back toward the hall. Light spilled from the tall windows, casting long shadows across the courtyard. The music continued, oblivious. Quenya hovered closer.

"You dislike this place."

Vencian did not answer at once.

People moved at the edges of the path, distant and indistinct.

"It presses," he said finally. "And I invited the attention."

She watched him, eyes bright.

"You still have work unfinished."

"Yes."

The Pentarch council contact remained unseen. The night had slipped past him, occupied by misdirection and interruption.

"And now," Quenya said softly, "your best angle has left."

Vencian looked toward the palace, lights blazing behind glass.

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