The hall shifted like breath drawn in.
Not loud. Not dramatic.
Just… sharp.
The way air moves before a storm.
And then—he appeared.
Lucien Arcturus Lysandra.
The Crown Prince of Arcanis.
He did not stride in like a man entering his home.
He arrived like gravity.
Tall. Still. Unhurried.
His banquet attire was nothing short of artistry—deep violet tailored to precise imperial lines, framed in obsidian-black threading that shimmered faintly under the hall's enchanted light. The inner lining of his coat bore warding sigils so subtly sewn they read like whispers of authority—undeniable, if you knew how to see. His gloves were a shade of porcelain white, unmarred, bearing the imperial crest in embossed silver on each wrist.
And not a single thread was out of place.
Not a hair disarranged.
Even the cut of his boots—the gleam at the edge of polished leather—spoke of discipline honed to obsession.
Lucien didn't look at the room.
He measured it.
