The Royal Diplomatic Reception was designed to be boring.

It was a masterpiece of dullness.

The orchestra played music that sounded like a collective sigh. The wine was lukewarm. The conversation revolved entirely around tariff zones and grain yields.

Marcus leaned against a marble pillar. He swirled his glass of red wine. He was perfectly content.

This is excellent, Marcus thought. I am bored. Everyone else is bored. No one is falling in love. No one is saving the world. This is the pinnacle of success.

He adjusted his cravat. He had chosen an outfit that blended into the beige wallpaper. He was attempting to be a piece of furniture.

Across the room, Damien stood near the buffet table.

He was methodically eating shrimp. He caught Marcus's eye and gave a subtle thumbs-up.

Operation: Fade Away was in full effect.

Then the whispers started.

It began near the entrance.

A ripple of sound moved through the crowd. It traveled faster than a fire spell.

Fans snapped open. Heads turned.

"Is that him?"

"I heard he was in the Free Cities."

"Look at the coat. Is that velvet?"

Marcus straightened up. His coaching instincts tingled. The energy in the room had shifted from boredom to scandal.

The double doors swung open. The herald did not announce the newcomer. The man simply walked in.

He was tall. He was handsome in a way that suggested he spent hours in front of a mirror.

He had the same dark hair as Damien, but styled with more oil.

He wore a coat of deep midnight blue with silver embroidery.

He smiled. It was a practiced smile. It was the kind of smile that sold used chariots or bad investments.

Marcus didn't know the face. But he knew the type.

He drifted closer to a cluster of gossiping baronesses. He needed intel.

"Count Blackthorn," one lady whispered behind her fan. "I thought he was dodging creditors in the South."

"He must have found a new patron," another murmured. "Or he's come back to beg."

"He looks well for a man who abandoned his family."

Marcus stiffened. Blackthorn.

He looked across the room. He searched for the splash of crimson hair that marked Vivienne's presence.

He found her near the balcony doors.

She was wearing a gown that defied noble conventions. It was dark leather and red silk, cut to allow movement.

It was an adventurer's idea of formal wear.

She had been laughing a moment ago. She had been holding court with a group of retired knights. She looked radiant, dangerous, and free.

Now she was a statue.

The laughter died in her throat.

Her hand tightened around her wine glass. The stem looked like it might snap.

The man in the blue coat scanned the room.

He ignored the glares. He ignored the whispers. His eyes locked onto Vivienne.

His smile widened. It didn't reach his eyes.

Damien appeared at Marcus's elbow.

The young man's face was a mask of neutral politeness. But Marcus could see the tension in his jaw. A muscle ticked rhythmically.

"He's back," Damien said. His voice was flat.

"Your father," Marcus stated. It wasn't a question.

"Count Aldric Blackthorn," Damien corrected. "Ex-husband. Absent father. Professional leech."

Marcus watched Aldric start to move through the crowd.

The man walked with an unearned confidence. He nodded to people who actively turned their backs on him.

"Why is he here?" Marcus asked. "The rumors say he fled debts."

"He always wants something," Damien said.

He didn't look at his father. He stared at a spot on the wall.

"Usually money. Sometimes image rehabilitation. He probably burned through his last mark's coin and decided to come home to the well."

"Vivienne looks..." Marcus paused. He searched for the right word.

Vivienne didn't look scared. She looked diminished.

Her shoulders had slumped slightly.

The vibrant energy that surrounded her had retracted. She looked like someone waiting for a blow.

"She hates scenes," Damien said quietly. "She hates public vulnerability. He knows that. He counts on it."

Aldric stopped to greet a Duke who clearly wanted him dead.

Aldric laughed as if the Duke had told a joke. He clapped the man on the shoulder. The Duke looked ready to call a guard.

"He's working the room," Marcus observed. "He's establishing presence before he engages the target."

"He's a narcissist," Damien said. "He thinks if he acts like nothing happened, everyone will eventually agree with him."

Marcus watched Aldric turn. The man focused solely on Vivienne. He began to walk toward her.

It was a slow, deliberate approach. It was the walk of a hunter who knew the prey couldn't run.

"Stay here," Marcus said.

"I can't cause a scene," Damien hissed. "It would humiliate her."

"I know," Marcus said. "I'm just going to watch. From a safe distance."

"Marcus," Damien warned. "This isn't part of the plan. You're supposed to be fading away."

"The plan is paused," Marcus said. He unbuttoned his jacket slightly. He let out a breath. "Technical difficulties."

He began to move through the crowd.

He kept people between him and Aldric. He moved like a ghost.

He wasn't the protagonist right now. He was the observer.

And he didn't like what he was seeing.

Marcus positioned himself behind a large ice sculpture of a swan. It was cold, melting, and provided excellent cover.

He had a clear line of sight to Vivienne.

Aldric reached her. He stopped just inside her personal space.

It was a power move. Close enough to be intimate, far enough to claim innocence if she shoved him.

Marcus focused. He activated his analysis mode. He wasn't using magic.

He was using ten years of reading micro-expressions in therapy offices.

"Vivienne," Aldric said.

His voice carried. It was warm. Rich. "You look stunning."

Vivienne didn't step back. She held her ground. But her posture was rigid.

"Aldric," she said. Her tone was brittle. "I didn't know you were in the capital."

"I just arrived," Aldric said. He reached out and took her free hand.

Vivienne flinched. It was microscopic.

A slight twitch of the wrist. But she didn't pull away.

The eyes of the room were on them. To pull away would be to make a scene.

"He's using the audience," Marcus muttered to himself. "He knows she won't cause a scandal."

Aldric brought her hand to his lips. He didn't kiss it. He just hovered there, breathing on her knuckles.

"I've been traveling," Aldric said loudly enough for the nearby knights to hear. "Reflection does a man good, Viv. I've had a lot of time to think about my mistakes."

"Have you?" Vivienne asked. She extracted her hand. She crossed her arms.

It was a defensive barrier.

"I have," Aldric said. He dropped his voice.

Marcus had to strain to read his lips. "I missed you. The Free Cities are colorful, but they lack... elegance. They lack fire."

He smiled. It was a boyish, charming smile. It was designed to disarm.

He's rewriting history, Marcus analyzed. He's framing his abandonment as a spiritual journey. He's testing her boundaries.

Vivienne looked around. She saw the stares. She saw the whispers behind fans.

"We shouldn't do this here," she said.

"I agree," Aldric said immediately.

He gestured toward a semi-private alcove near the balcony.

It was curtained off, meant for quiet conversations. "Let's talk. Just for a moment. For old times' sake?"

He tilted his head. He looked harmless. He looked like a man seeking closure.

Don't go, Marcus thought. It's a trap.

But Vivienne was trapped either way.

If she stayed, they made a spectacle in the center of the room.

If she left, she gave him what he wanted.

She chose the lesser of two evils. Or so she thought.

"Five minutes," Vivienne said.

She walked toward the alcove. She moved stiffly.

The fluidity of the Crimson Viper was gone.

She walked like a countess who was afraid of tripping.

Aldric followed. As he turned, his expression changed.

For a split second, the charm vanished. His face went slack. His eyes cold and calculating.

He looked like a man checking the sum on a ledger.

Then he passed the curtain, and the charm returned.

Marcus waited three seconds. Then he moved.

He circled the room. He picked up a fresh glass of wine to look busy.

He approached the alcove from the side, leaning against the wall near the heavy velvet drapes.

He couldn't see them. But he could hear everything.

I hate diplo-speak, Marcus grumbled internally. It's just lying with better vocabulary.

He took a sip of wine. He closed his eyes and just... listened.

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