Valeria stood near the edge of the banquet hall, her form composed, her breath steady—but her eyes never left the dueling floor. The nobles around her whispered, gasped, drew sharp breaths with every clash of steel, but she remained unmoving. Still. Watching.
Because this…
This was Lucavion.
Exactly as she had expected.
The instant he had drawn that blade, she'd known the tone of the room would shift. Not because of flair. Not because of status.
But because when Lucavion held a sword, something inside him changed.
No—awakened.
She had seen it before. She had faced it before. The way he moved, the way he thought, it was nothing like the swordsmanship taught in towers and courts. Nothing like the flowing patterns of the noble styles. It was too real. Too brutal. Too fast. It wasn't elegance—it was efficiency honed to a blade's edge.
A monstrous kind of beauty.
That's what made him terrifying.
And now, Rowen was feeling it.
