"A ghost in velvet."
Lucavion's mouth curved—not into one of his razor-thin smirks or those crooked mockeries he wore like armor.
But into a genuine smile.
Low. Wry. Inevitable.
"Ghost in velvet…" he murmured, almost to himself. "Quite a name."
Mireilla tilted her head, one brow rising.
Then Lucavion turned toward her, eyes faintly amused, something playful threading beneath the surface of his tone.
"And what would you say," he asked, "for the one in front?"
There was no need to clarify. Every gaze in the hall still followed him—the Crown Prince, Lucien Arcturus Lysandra, walking like inevitability made flesh.
Mireilla took a beat too long to answer. Not from hesitation—but calculation.
"Hm." Her tone grew thoughtful. "Impeccable. Composed. Intimidating in the textbook kind of way."
A pause.
"Regal," she settled on, safely diplomatic.
Lucavion's smile broke wider—this time with unmistakable mirth. His laugh, low and quick, slipped out before he stopped it.
