The whispers inside the Harbor Grand had not yet died when Celeste Zane slowly pushed herself upright.
A moment earlier, the ballroom had been in chaos. Chairs had scraped. Crystal had trembled. Half the city’s upper crust had crowded around the fallen heiress with the kind of alarm that was only half concern and half hunger for spectacle. Now every eye in the room was fixed on Liam Livingston.
Most of them still wore the same expression: disbelief sharpened by prejudice. In their minds, Celeste’s recovery could only be luck. Surely it had nothing to do with anything Liam had said about geomancy, corrupted energy, or the bronze mirror hanging on the eastern wall like a decorative relic.
But Celeste lifted a hand, cutting through the murmurs.
“Wait,” she said, voice still weak but clear
