LUCIAN
Evelara always smells like cold flowers, expensive, brittle things that die in a vase before you ever get to enjoy them. I catch her slipping out of one of the side corridors after dinner, no doubt fresh from whispering poison into someone’s ear.
“Evelara,” I call smoothly, letting my voice carry just enough to halt her in her tracks.
She glances over her shoulder, eyes narrowing. “Lucian. What a surprise. Shouldn’t you be entertaining someone more… appropriate?”
I smile, but there’s no warmth in it. “We need to talk.”
Her painted lips curve upward. “Finally decided to take me seriously?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I say lightly, stepping closer. “This isn’t about you. It’s about Amaya.”
The name alone is enough to make her face tighten before she smooths it over again. “Ah. T
