Page 75 of War Hour

When the pair reaches the floor of the ballroom, they separate, Ardis taking two healthy steps away as Sar drops her hand from his arm. She gives him one last look before steeling her gaze and turning her back to him.

Ardis knocks his head back, sighing as he stares at the ceiling before following her.

I meet her halfway, grabbing her hand and squeezing it once. She gives me a watery smile but doesn’t acknowledge what has just played out on the steps for all to watch.

The soothing melody floating from the orchestra halts, and a new one takes its place. This one builds anticipation, thesounding percussion making the room shift their gazes toward the top of the staircase, spines straightening.

People move aside, parting a path down the center of the ballroom from the last step to the head table.

Lady Ivianna is the first of the Crowns to step through the entrance, her husband on her arm. She smiles graciously as she descends the stairs, waving to the crowd watching her below.

Bash follows a few paces behind with a wide grin, just as he did this afternoon during War Hour.

When they reach the bottom of the stairs, the crowd bows like a wave. As they approach our side of the ballroom, Sar and Ardis do the same, gesturing for me to mirror their movements.

Once they’ve passed, we rise to see Lord Rhen descending the stairs, his wife walking with him. A stern glower darkens his face, eyes narrow, as he peers out over the crowd surrounding him.

Jona and Eiko follow, both of whom look less than pleased to be dressed up and paraded through everyone.

The pattern continues as each court debuts their Crowns and Heirs through the ballroom, the crowd bowing as they pass.

When Lord Nicaise and his wife pass, with no Heir to trail them, I search the crowd for Visha. Surprised she didn’t find herself in the procession, as she acted almost as if she were an honorary Heir.

Visha stands among the people, a distant expression on her face. Her mother presses to her side, whispering harshly into Visha’s ear. The same purple glaze crosses Visha’s eyes, and the corners of her mouth turn downward.

I’m jolted from my thoughts as Sar yanks me into another bow.

Lord Bralas has already made his way down the steps, Neith and Conlen strutting behind.

I bow but turn my head to Sar. Her face betrays nothing except for the tight line her lips are pulled into.

I anticipate Lord Gennady is the next to proceed in, just from the sound of his cane clanking against the marble floor. But when I turn to watch his arrival, my eyes move past him without my consent, landing on Evander, who follows.

Evander’s eyes surf the onlookers as I examine him. His cobalt blue dress coat isn’t the best color for him. It makes him look pale, makes the gold brown of his hair fade. But then his gaze locks onto me. A wide smile curves his lips, and my heart stutters. His eyes only leave me when he reaches the bottom and people drift in the way.

A startling silence settles over the ballroom, and for a moment, I think that even the orchestra has stuttered.

Standing at the staircase’s landing, Torryn steps forward, and his persona shifts into place. The persona of a feared lord.

Torryn’s pale skin stands out against the black of his hair and dress clothes. Embroidered into the cloth of his dress suit’s jacket are silver swirls.

He looks good, but the part lodging my breath and making the crowd whisper is the silver crown sitting atop his wavy hair.

It’s easy to forget Torryn’s position as a lord. Decades younger than the other Crowns, he fit better among the Heirs, but now there is no denying his status—his power.

The crowd hesitates when Torryn reaches the bottom of the stairs, and for a moment, I worry they won’t bow to him as they did the other Crowns. It’s no secret the fear held for Torryn and the Court of Self, but would they go so far as to publicly deny him? But then the first person bows, and I sag in relief as everyone else follows suit, eager to avoid the gaze of the young lord.

When Torryn passes, I try to catch his attention, but his gaze doesn’t waver, staring forward as he follows the procession.Every step he takes is rigid, like a snake coiled up tight before it attacks. Ready to attack any who dare tread near it, friend or foe alike.

Chapter 29

As the procession ends, the Crowns and Heirs stand in front of the head table. Lord Gennady raises a glass, mirrored by the rest of the room.

He makes a grand speech containing the word “peace” more times than I deem acceptable, but it evokes the reaction he’s aiming for. The crowd watches with rapt attention, latching onto his every word, holding their breath at every pause.

Maybe my perception is jaded, but it all just sounds like a bunch of pretty words. Easy to say, harder to mean.

After a thunderous applause for Lord Gennady, the music kicks back up, and the crowd disperses. I take the opportunity to sink into the wall, blending into the background.

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