Draven's pulse rose one deliberate beat. He acknowledged with the gentlest tilt of the tray, sending a ripple through the wine's surface. Helyra's eyes slipped away, serene. Anyone watching saw a priestess test the weight of her scepter and a servant re-balancing his service.
Beyond her, Kaela's novice robe pooled around combat boots no acolyte would dare wear, but the hem skimmed just low enough to hide them. She sang with the choir, mouth shaping holy syllables, though Draven knew her voice hardly escaped her lips—she was listening for footfalls. Beneath linen hung scaled leather fit for a knife-fight. At the lull between verses she dipped behind a red-velvet drape, vanishing into stairwells meant for stagehands centuries dead. Her pulse spiked—he saw it in the flutter of cloth—but her footsteps stayed even. Good.
