Fatality ━━ Matt vs Chris Sturniolo²

𝖝𝖑. Mess of a Dinner Party

The pair walk across the terrace, toward the smell and soft lights and the low murmur of stilted conversation. This part of the palace juts out over the ridge, allowing an unobstructed view over the pines, the valley, and the snowy peaks in the distance. They seem to glow under the light of a rising moon.

Maeve tries not to look eager or interested or even angry. Nothing to hint at her emotions. Still, she feels her heart jump, adrenaline pumping, at the sight of Matthew's familiar silhouette. He stares out at the landscape, unable to face anyone else around him. Maeve feels her lip curl in distaste. Since when are you a coward, Matthew?

Privately, Maeve curses Nick for deciding not to come. He chose to spend the night with Weston and the rest of Maeve's family, telling her that he had no place at the dinner party. She firmly disagrees, and now she's quite irritated she's been left alone to the wolves.

She supposes she has Cyrus, who's pacing back and forth some yards away, still wearing her Command uniform. Her hair has been braided into a crown-shape, and it gleams under the bright lamps strung over the terrace table. She gives Maeve a nod before moving to sit.

Valencia and Annabel are already in their chairs, on either side of one end of the table. They must intend to flank Matt and trumpet their importance at his right and left. While Annabel seems comfortable in her gown from earlier, the heavy red and orange silk, Valencia nuzzles into a collar of smooth black fox fur. The Vesper watches Maeve as she approaches the table, eyes glittering like two devious stars. When Maeve sits, taking her place diagonal from the magnetron, as far as possible from the exiled prince, Valencia's lips twist into what could be a smile.

Cardan doesn't seem to notice or care that his dinner guests are hellbent on hating one another. He sits gracefully in the chair across from Maeve's, at the right hand of where she assumes Dawson will be. A servant springs from the shadows to fill his intricately etched wineglass.

Maeve watches with narrowed eyes. The servant has red blood, judging by the flush in his cheeks. He's neither old nor young, but he smiles as he works. Maeve has never seen a Red servant smile like that, unless commanded.

"They're paid, and paid fairly," Cyrus says, sitting down beside their host. "I've already checked."

Cardan swirls the wine in his glass. "Poke and prod at whatever you like, General Cyrus. Check behind the curtains, for all I care. There are no slaves in my house," he says, his voice taking on a stern edge.

"We haven't been properly introduced," Maeve says, feeling more rude than usual. "Your name is Cardan, but ━ "

"Of course, excuse my manners, Miss Deuveux. Premier Dawson is my husband, and he is currently very late. I would apologize if the dinner goes cold waiting for him" ━ he waves a hand at the table of food nearby, holding their first course ━ "but his punctuality is neither my fault nor my problem."

His words are harsh, but his manner is friendly and open. If Dawson is difficult to read, his husband is an open book. And so is Valencia right now.

She stares at the man with such naked envy Maeve thinks she might turn green. And no wonder. Their lives, a marriage such as this, are impossible in Norta and the Rift. Forbidden. Considered a waste of silver blood. But not here.

Maeve folds her hands in her lap, trying not to fidget despite the nervous energy settling over the table. Annabel has not spoken, either because she disapproves of Cardan or because she disapproves of eating alongside Reds. It could be both.