Hajin crossed toward the ballroom's long refreshment table with fluid, practiced movements.
Years of exile had stripped away his title, comfort, and family name. His body still remembered every courtly lesson beaten into him during childhood.
He passed through clusters of gossiping nobles with his back straight and his expression bored, moving with a grace that did not match the unknown Ranker described by the evening's whispers.
'Chin level. Shoulders loose. Never let them see where you intend to go.'
The old instructions returned without effort.
At the table, Hajin selected a glass of chilled white wine. Chandelier light scattered through the crystal and painted pale fragments across his fingers.
He held the stem with unconscious familiarity instead of drinking.
Several nearby noblewomen paused their conversation to watch him rotate the glass once.
