Cedric's words were a bitter echo of the warnings Olivia had whispered before, yet Mathias refused to grant him the hollow pleasure of seeing a single crack in his resolve. With a lethal, glacial composure, he swept his gaze over the gathered servants and guards, who hovered about the scene like ravens scenting the iron tang of a feast.
He sheathed his sword with a slow, deliberate scrape; the metallic song of the blade returning to its scabbard acted as a grim period to the violence. Despite the blood seeping through his clothes, he adjusted his collar and straightened his posture, reclaiming his terrifying elegance.
A synthetic smile stretched across his lips—pale, hollow, and utterly devoid of warmth.
"I do not recall requesting an audience from any of you," he murmured, his politeness more dangerous than a shout. "Why the assembly? Is there a celebration I was unaware of?"
