As Asher reached the top of the stairs, the room fell silent, every eye locked on him. Among the crowd, Harry, a stout merchant with sharp eyes felt a hot rush of indignation bubble up.
He had spent years climbing his way up the social ladder, eager to win Ambrose's favor, and now this soldier, this outsider, was stealing the spotlight.
"Who does he think he is?" Harry muttered, his voice low but seething with frustration. "Just a soldier, acting like he owns the place."
Before he could take another step, a firm hand shot out and grabbed his arm, halting him. It was Ambrose, his grip tight, his voice steady but with an edge.
"Harry, hold on," Ambrose said, his tone a warning. "This isn't the moment to make a scene."
Harry pulled against Ambrose's hold, his face flushed with anger.
