Midnight lood, its arrival marked not by chis, but by the slowing pulse of the ballroom.
The orchestra had thinned to a lone violin—its mournful song curling like smoke through a crowd grown soft at the edges.
Towan leaned against a marble pillar, exhaustion stitched behind his eyes, the weight of the night pressing sharp against his ribs as he recounted everything to Sylra—the stew, the noble girls, the nightmares, the suit.
“So you’re telling ,” Sylra said slowly, silver eyes narrowing as she glanced toward Len across the room, “this all happened… because you served her stew?”
Towan sighed. “Yeah. Basically.”
“And then everything exploded.”
“Pretty much.”
She opened her mouth—probably to say sothing sarcastic—
when a voice like steel wrapped in velvet sliced through the air behind them.
“May I have a word with you?”
Towan turned.
Governor Verestra stood there—his posture effortless, his presence palpable.
A man whose smile had been taught to disarm. Whose gaze could kill stock markets.
Towan tensed. Sylra stepped forward, instinct kicking in, but the Governor didn’t so much as glance at her.
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“Of course, my lord,” Towan said, swallowing sothing sharp.
The Governor led him toward a quiet alcove—stone walls cool and candlelit, quiet enough that the distant violin in the ballroom sounded like a dying breath.
The silence stretched, taut as wire.
“Have I done sothing wrong, sir?” Towan finally asked.
The Governor studied his wineglass, rolling it slowly between his fingers—not out of anxiety. Refinent. The kind of motion n made when they wanted you to think they were relaxed while they weighed your worth.
“I never expected,” he said softly, “that the bartender my daughter had a crush on… would wear the sigils of House Elaren.”
Towan froze.
(House... what?)
“Pardon?” he managed. “I think there’s been so—”
“Your suit.” The Governor gestured, fingertip trailing along Towan’s shoulder.
The threads stirred.
Then shimred.
Navy-blue crescents blood faintly—not stitched, but awakened. Only visible under touch.
Only visible to him.
“The weave responds to blood,” the Governor murmured. “It was crafted for a single line. And you—”
His eyes flicked up.
“You wore it like it belonged.”
Towan’s heart skipped. Once.
Then again.
mories cracked behind his eyes:
Leon’s rare, almost sad glances.
The way the suit fit like it rembered his body.
The dreams. The ring.
The pull of sothing deeper—older—whispering through his veins.
“I thought House Elaren was long dead,” the Governor said. “But... ghosts linger.”
Then, with the calm of a man recomnding a wine pairing:
“At least I no longer worry about my daughter ending up with a nobody.”
Towan blinked. (I didn’t ask for your blessing.)
“If you two pursue sothing,” the Governor added, already turning, “you have it.”
And then—he was gone.
As if he hadn’t just kicked the foundation out from under Towan’s entire world.
Towan stared at the glowing crest, breath shallow.
(There’s no way… right?)
He didn’t feel braver.
Or stronger.
He just felt watched.
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