On the other side of the banquet, Count Nicalo gently guided Duke Harrick through the throng of glittering nobles. The Duke's face was a storm of emotions, his fingers restlessly biting at his nails, the frustration in his eyes unmistakable. His ire wasn't solely for David; the Archon's unexpected intervention had left him seething.
Count Nicalo, ever the picture of calm, placed a firm hand on the Duke's shoulder. Leaning in close, he whispered, his voice low and honeyed, "Compose yourself, Your Grace. Everything will be fine. Let the pieces fall into place. For now, enjoy the banquet, mingle with the guests, and find me later when the time is right."
The words carried an unsettling weight, their cool assurance snapping Duke Harrick out of his turbulent thoughts. For a fleeting moment, his eyes turned an eerie black, an unearthly gleam flickering in their depths.
