Cerys leaned her back against the moon-washed pillar, letting the cold marble leech some of the frustration still buzzing under her skin. The banquet hall behind her pulsed with muffled strings and clinking goblets, but out here the arched corridor felt cavernous and still, broken only by the distant hush of ornamental fountains. She rolled tense shoulders, wishing formal attire allowed plate armor; at least steel breathed honesty.
Footsteps approached—deliberate yet unhurried. Lucien emerged from the gloom, auburn hair escaping its ribbon, his emerald doublet slightly askew as if he'd tugged at the collar all night. In his hands, two crystal tumblers glimmered amber.
"Stole Father's best rye," he whispered, settling beside her on the wide balustrade. "Figured you'd need the sharper brew."
She accepted the glass, the cut facets skating cool against her gauntlet. "You could earn a flogging pilfering that cask."
