"He told me to return." Marcel's words landed flat in the antechamber and did the job of a bell. Servants shifted, skirts and sleeves brushing like a light wind. Carolyn pasted her smile with too much practice. "You will be presented tomorrow," Marcel said. "The Alliance ceremony. It must look... seamless." "Seamless," Carolyn echoed, and her hands moved in a silent rehearsal of warmth. "You will smile, Ari. You will accept the honors. You will make us proud." I stood with a folded cloak in my hands. The fabric smelled of river smoke and sweat. Flynn and Wyatt taught me to fold like packing a bone: no softness, no wasted space. "You call this a courtesy?" I asked. I let my voice be small enough to be heard and cold enough to be noticed. "You drag me here to patch an alliance and call it family." Marcel's jaw tightened. He wore public patience like a well-cut coat. "You know the value of appearances. Dunford House wants a third son tied to the Alliance. This is political, Ari." "Political," I said, tasting the word. It was a green coin. "So I'm a coin." Carolyn bared teeth that might have been a smile if she had any warmth. "Don't speak like that. You'll be hurt." "I already know how wounds feel," I said. "I was raised on one. I can dress the cuts myself." Marcel's face split into the practiced grief of a man accused