Elara watched the Crown Prince without meaning to.
It was difficult not to.
There was something about the way he stood—no, held the room. He didn't demand it like Adrian, didn't pierce it like Lucavion, didn't weave through it like that girl, her name was Valeria.
No. Lucien Lysandra rooted the room. Like a truth that didn't care if you agreed.
His presence was cut from another cloth—disciplined, severe, but not brutal. Regal not just in title, but in effect. He didn't shimmer. The air around him did.
Her eyes narrowed faintly. Not from doubt—just from the way instinct tickled at something behind her thoughts.
He was sharp, yes. But not like a blade drawn on a battlefield.
No. He was administrative sharpness. The kind that rewrote tax law with the same precision used to authorize invasions. The kind of sharpness that bled not from swords, but from signatures.
'Like Valeria,' she thought. But not quite.
