The grand hall was thick with anticipation as the next wave of arrivals stepped through the towering doors, each figure carrying a presence that sent ripples through the crowd.
Duke Alexander De Xavier Dalton moved first, his heavy strides firm with the authority of a man who had returned from war victorious.
Though battle had left its marks, it had not dulled his composure—his dark blue coat embroidered with silver bore the weight of experience, and his sharp jewel-blue gaze swept across the room, assessing allies and adversaries alike.
But on the other hand, the air in the grand hall was thick with unspoken resentment, a tension woven into the very walls, buried beneath layers of forced civility. With every step Alexander took, the murmurs among the nobles turned sharp, their gazes shifting from guarded neutrality to open scorn.
His presence was a ghost from their past—a reminder of a wound that had never truly healed.
"Look at him,"
