The End of The Banquet

The grand hall fell silent for the second time.

The long silver strands cascaded over his shoulder like threads of fine silk. Xion barely had to turn his head to know who it was.

The Archduke.

A sharp inhale rippled through the hushed hall, and even the mindless chatter of the nobles faltered.

Darius' presence was heavy like a tempest. And Xion, still wrapped in his iron embrace, did not dare to move.

His crimson-stained palm was now carefully held by the archduke. Before he could move his hand, the grip on his wrist tightened.

Unbeknownst to Xion, the venomous gaze had landed on the future heir of the duchy. Making Klein, who had stood so smug just moments ago, visibly stiffen.

Darius didn't need to raise his voice, nor did he need to move. The sheer weight of his presence was enough to send a chill crawling up Klein's spine.

"You are hurt, Xion."