The fallout came not like fire—but frost.
Lucavion stood tall at the epicenter of a shattered calm, the projection sphere now dim in his hand like a finished performance. The nobles didn't scream. They didn't argue.
They simply stepped back.
Quietly.
Collectively.
Like dancers re-choreographing their positions.
The air didn't buzz with outrage—it withdrew, peeled itself away from him, cautious, controlled. As if proximity to Lucavion might brand them with complicity. As if the truth he'd just unleashed was more dangerous than the lie they'd been ready to clap for.
And then—
Adrian spoke.
Not loudly.
But his voice carried the authority of decision.
"No one from Lorian will approach him," he said. "Not tonight."
Jesse didn't look at him.
She didn't need to.
She could feel Isolde's gaze beside him—calm, composed, the strategist already calculating the fallout, already weighing loyalty against longevity.
