Roiben’s war room was built for strategy, not comfort. Stone walls, high windows, a long table crowded with maps, and a hearth that barely kept the cold away. The kind of place that felt like it had never known laughter—only plans, betrayal, and the weight of silence.

Reverie moved like the cold didn’t touch her.

She walked in, eyes sweeping the room once, and then—without pause—strode to the far wall, opened the correct cabinet, and pulled out a wine bottle with the casual grace of someone reaching into their own kitchen. She retrieved four goblets, placed them down, uncorked the bottle, and began pouring.

Jude glanced up from the map, brow furrowing.

Nicasia paused mid-sentence.

Cardan, half-lounging in a high-backed chair, tilted his head. “Odd,” he murmured, voice almost amused, “that she knew where everything was.”

Reverie didn’t look up. “Lucky guess.”

“Four goblets, one bottle, no hesitation?” Jude asked, arms crossed, watching her carefully. “That’s not luck. That’s familiarity.”

Reverie met her gaze over the rim of her glass. “Or intuition.”

Nicasia snorted. “You’re intuitive enough to know which cabinet Roiben keeps the rare wine in? The one even I had to ask about?”

Roiben, standing by the hearth, remained quiet.

Too quiet.

Cardan’s smirk widened just slightly. “I do love when things get interesting.”

Roiben and Reverie have had a....thing....but no one except for the two of them knew...it was controversial

Roiben finally spoke, voice like falling ash. “Focus.”

But no one did—not really.

Because Reverie sat like she belonged here. And that was the most dangerous thing of all.