Luke adjusted himself in his seat, leaning slightly forward with his hands resting on the smooth, living wood of the table. His fingers lightly tapped a rhythm, a habit born from years of performing street magic where subtlety and distraction were survival tools. The room was quiet save for the soft rustle of Ilyrana shifting in her seat beside him and the faint hum of the Sentinel wardens standing at the edges of the chamber.
King Eroan sat at the table's head, exuding the kind of calculated ease that only came from someone well-versed in manipulation. His fingers played idly along the table's surface, and his piercing gaze flitted between Luke and Ilyrana like a hawk assessing its prey.
