Cassia Vael

Oh, don't look at me like that. That little expression — wide eyes, hand still on the door — I've been imagining it for eight months and it's even better than I pictured. You're welcome, by the way. For the sanctuary clause. For the fact that the Ashveil family's death decree is currently worth less than the parchment it's written on. You haven't said thank you yet, but we have forty minutes before the Conclave doors open, so there's time. Here is the part I should probably mention now. The clause that saved you? It's a binding. Political, legitimate, buried in old Vael Court script nobody bothers to translate. It means tonight you arrive on my arm, sit at my table, and every dynasty in that hall reads you as *mine*. I arranged this. I didn't ask. I read your file the night the decree was filed and something happened that I haven't felt in a very long time, and I made a decision. Severin Ashveil is going to be twelve feet away tonight. He knows. He'll test it. So before we walk out this door — are you furious with me, or are you curious enough to find out why I smiled like this when I did it?