In the middle of the party, three people stepped out quietly, joining the guests.

The silence that rushed through the guests was basically instant.

“Who are they?”

“Gods, look at them—like statues carved from marble.”

“Lords from the north, I heard. Or perhaps foreign princes?”

“They walk like they own the room. How thrilling.”

Serielle didn’t need to look to know who they were.

Their steps, their energy—all of it carved into her like a knife.

She gripped the fabric of her skirt, forcing herself to remain still, to keep breathing.

Baron Thomas stood up, always the gracious host.

“An unexpected joy,” he said smoothly. “The Lords of the North, you honor us with your presence.”

Lioran, being the oldest, bowed his head.

His smile looked slow and thoughtful. “An honor, Baron de Aragorn. We find ourselves drawn to the better circles of society.”

Liar.

Serielle kept her eyes on the floor, but she could feel their looks.

Do they know?

Had they already recognized her?

Keep your head down. Do not react.

A new wave of murmurs was rising.

“The dark-haired one is breathtaking. He must be the eldest.”

“And the one beside him, those eyes—like a winter storm.”

“The youngest has a smirk like the devil himself.”

Someone giggled behind her, breathless.

“They must be dangerous men.”

Oh yeah. You have no idea.

Lord Aurenfell’s voice was silken. “The gathering tonight is…lively.” He swept the room.

Serielle could feel it pass over her like a blade’s edge.

Lioran chuckled. “Yes. Quite the assortment of guests.”

Serielle clenched her jaw. They were playing. Drawing out the moment, savoring the tension like wolves circling their prey.

She couldn’t run. She couldn’t fight.

The only option for her was to pray they wouldn’t see her as something worth hunting.

As the night turned late, Serielle felt her brothers watching her from time to time.

They did not touch her, did not speak her name, but their aura alone was annoying.

“Baron Thomas…” Lord Aurenfell, the middle brother, decided to say something too. “You’ve taken in quite an intriguing young lady.”

Baron Thomas sipped his wine. “She was in need of shelter,” he said smoothly. “And I’m not one to turn away those in need.”

Lioran lifted his chin, considering. “A noble sentiment.” His tone was softer. “But I wonder—how did you find her?”

Serielle focused on her shoes, heart pounding like a meteor hitting every planet.

Baron Thomas did not hesitate. “She fainted in the market. Had I arrived a moment later, my horses might have trampled her.” He gestured slightly, relaxed.

“I wouldn’t have left her there, would I?”

Lioran hummed. “Of course not.”

Serielle forced herself to remain still.

Aurenfell tilted his head slightly, studying her. “She is a quiet one.” He raised his goblet, swirling the wine. “Does she not speak?”

A small, knowing smile played at the edges of his lips.

Serielle felt her throat tighten…You made me this way…You took my voice with your sword…

Baron Thomas smiled slowly, his eyes flashing for a second.

“She is recovering,” he said. “Not all wounds are visible.”

Aurenfell’s smile widened. “Ah. How tragic.”

Isendar drummed his fingers against his goblet, settling his eyes on her like a cat watching a caged bird.

“Perhaps silence is a blessing for a lady.”

His smirk was slow.

“Too many have the unfortunate habit of speaking out of turn.”

Laughter broke out among the three lords.

Serielle focused her hearing on the piano played by a young musician at the end of the room.

Do not react. Do not give them what they want.

She moved her head up a little and offered a small, polite smile.

Nothing more.

Lioran watched her for a long moment before turning to his wine.

Not far from them, Raphael had apparently separated from the previous group and was now standing near the musicians, engaged in conversation.

He laughed again, oblivious to the game going on in the room.

And then, Lioran turned his attention to him.

“The Arden blood runs deep in the kingdom,” he said casually. “Tell me, Duke Ardenhyll, what is it like to live under the shadow of your uncle, the king?”

The question was a thorn, veiled behind noble etiquette.

It was a challenge.

Raphael’s simple smile turned icier.

He put down his goblet. “I don’t know,” he replied. “I prefer to make my own way.”

Lioran leaned forward, lowering his eyes.

“And still, the path is so easily blocked.”

Raphael straightened up, his eyes rolling slightly.

The energy thickened. The nobles glanced between them, sensing the shift in the air.

“Perhaps what Lord Lioran is talking about is the Duke’s relationship with the Crown Prince,” someone whispered behind Serielle.

“They’re cousins, but their relationship is worse than mortal enemies.”

Meanwhile, Raphael refused to back down. “Blocked? That is a curious choice of words, Lord Lioran.”

Lioran smiled. “Is it?”

Aurenfell swirled his wine. “Some people rise up on their own merits. Others…are placed where they stand. Lucky births, timely alliances.”

He glanced at Raphael’s untouched goblet. “But luck is changeable. Don’t you agree?”

Raphael’s fingers curled around the stem of his glass. “I’d rather not rely on luck,” he said coldly. “Only skill.”

Isendar chuckled. “Ah. So humble. Tell me then, if you were not the king’s nephew, would you be here? Would you forge your own path?”

“I imagine I’d still be standing here. Would you?”

A beat of silence.

Isendar leaned forward. “That depends. Are we speaking of fate, or of obstacles?”

Raphael’s jaw twitched. Who are these guys, messing here with him?

“I don’t believe in fate.”

“Neither do I,” Aurenfell murmured. “But I do believe in obstacles.” A long smile spread across his face like a virus.

Where she stood, Serielle kept her face expressionless.

She knew what they were doing. They were watching her as much as they were provoking Raphael.

She turned to a passing servant, reaching for her goblet as if she hadn’t heard a word.

She could feel Lioran staring at her. Waiting.

Isendar exhaled a soft laugh. “What an interesting evening.”

Lioran raised his goblet. “For a well-chosen path, then.”

Raphael didn’t drink.

The lanterns lit up the garden.

But their light barely reached the stone bench where Serielle sat.

Her fingers pressed against her collarbone.

She forced herself to breathe slowly and regularly.

She thought she was safe. She was wrong.

“Quite the gathering tonight,” Baron Thomas’s voice broke the silence.

Serielle flinched, but the Baron only chuckled as he stepped closer.

“Not enjoying the company?”

She shook her head.

He sighed, lowering himself onto the bench beside her.

“I noticed the way the other ladies whispered. People can be cruel, especially when they don’t understand someone.” He gave her a reassuring smile.

“But you must not let it bother you. Their opinion means nothing.”

Serielle stared at the ground.

Realizing that the Baron misunderstood her reason for sneaking into the garden.

“You carry yourself well,” he continued. “Calm, graceful. And that’s what they’ll remember, not the crap they talk about.”

Serielle swallowed and forced a small smile, nodding.

Baron Thomas looked at her, then smiled.

“You know, I was thinking. Perhaps I should extend an invitation to Duke Ardenhyll. A small dinner, nothing fancy.”

Serielle’s heart nearly stopped, her palms covered in sweat.

The Baron chuckled at her reaction.

“He seems like an impressive young man, don’t you think?”