From the raised balconies that circled the grand banquet hall, Reynard Crane watched.
He did not stand alone.
At his flanks—half a pace behind, like shadows trained to move with him—were two of his most loyal retainers. Lyon Halcrest, tall and sharp-featured, eyes always scanning like a hawk bored of waiting for prey. And Davien Thorne, broader, quiet, but not slow. His silence wasn't stupidity—it was calculation.
They were dressed impeccably, of course. Not for display, but for declaration.
Together, they stood like a portrait of future dominance.
Reynard's posture remained perfect—hands lightly clasped behind his back, expression schooled into the calm disdain of aristocracy perfected over generations. But his eyes? They never stopped moving.
They were fixed on one figure in particular.
Lucavion.
There was no mistaking him now. Not after the entrance trials. Not after the entrance ranking.
