The final words of politeness had barely settled between them when the air shifted again—not with tension, but with something quieter.
Expectation.
Aldric, Seraphina, Marius, and the final noble—now seated and settling with the casual sharpness of minor aristocracy—waited.
In the Arcanis Empire, the custom was clear: when noble houses interacted with those of uncertain or lower birth, it was the latter who extended their hand. A show of acknowledgment. A gesture of entry into the conversation.
The nobles did not reach first.
So when Elayne extended her hand to Seraphina with the perfect, composed grace of someone who had studied every angle of etiquette, Seraphina accepted with a nod of affirmation.
Caeden followed, his handshake firm, direct—an unspoken declaration that borders meant little to him.
Toven added a grin to his, ever the charm, and even Mireilla, after a brief and measured pause, reached across the table to Aldric, her movement fluid, unhurried, but precise.
