Maybe it was the fact that someone had looked at her differently. Recently.
Not like she was invisible.
Not like she was pitiable.
Lucavion.
The storm-touched boy who didn't bow, who didn't flatter, who didn't even use her title properly—and yet, in that maddening irreverence, there had been something sharp. Something seeing.
He had insulted her, teased her, challenged her.
But never once… dismissed her.
And then—she saw him.
Not at the center of the hall where titles danced and toasts flowed, but in the corner, near the high-arched window where moonlight gathered like a quiet audience. He was alone, of course. Lucavion never needed a court. He made solitude look intentional.
He wasn't watching the nobles. Not truly.
His gaze—dark, pitch-black—was locked on Lucien.
Sharp. Unflinching.
Challenging.
No bow. No softening. No veil of awe like the others wore when faced with the Crown Prince. Lucavion's eyes didn't yield.
They refused.
