'Dancing with the Knight'

"Oh, Sir Lancelot, it's been quite some time, hasn't it? I don't believe I've seen you since…" Elias trailed off, tapping his chin as if in deep thought, a small smirk playing at his lips.

"Since His Majesty's coronation," Lancelot answered flatly, stepping beside Florian. For the first time that evening, Florian felt relieved by the knight's presence.

"Ah, right. Though, was there ever an official coronation?" Elias mused, his voice deceptively light. "Hard to tell, what with all the weapons and Arcaniors threatening us."

Florian's breath hitched, eyes widening slightly. That shift—subtle, but unmistakable.

Before, Elias had been the perfect image of a nobleman: polite, charming, effortlessly composed.

Now? Bitterness laced his words, the weight of unspoken resentment pressing against the air between them. Beneath that carefully maintained facade, anger simmered, barely contained.