LYRA
The ballroom doors were imposing – twelve feet of carved mahogany, reaching from floor to ceiling, their edges gilded with the Dravyn crest. Behind them, the muffled sounds of music and conversation hinted at the electric atmosphere within, where powerful people had gathered. In front of them, there was just us.
Zeviar's hand rested on the small of my back, his presence a steady anchor. He looked incredibly sharp in black, his posture perfect, his jaw set with that quiet authority he possessed so effortlessly.
"Hey," he murmured, his voice just for me.
"Hey," I replied, turning to face him.
His eyes swept over my face, that familiar, thorough look that always made me feel both vulnerable and seen. Whatever he saw there must have prompted him to turn towards me fully, his hand mov
