[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/qzjFVFN.png[/img] [hr][i][color=LightSteelBlue]Time: Evening[/color] [color=LightSteelBlue]Location: Damien Estate / Banquet Hall[/color] [color=LightSteelBlue]Mentions / Interactions:[/color] [@princess] Lottie, Calbert, Liliane, Crystal, Edin, Alibeth, Random Waiter #1[/i][/center] [hr] [color=lightgray] Cassius didn’t remember much after that fifth—or was it seventh?—glass of whiskey. He remembered even less about how he made it back to the Damien Estate. Oblivion had stretched itself from night to morning, then noon, and before he knew it, the sun was setting again—and he wasn’t nearly ready for it. His head throbbed, a dull, steady pulse like a war drum muffled behind bone. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, elbows digging into his knees as he dragged a hand through his mess of silver-streaked hair. The weight of yesterday settled onto his shoulders like platemail that didn’t quite fit anymore. Charlotte. Her laughter. [i]Her lips[/i]. He exhaled sharply, like he could breathe her out of his system. [i]As if that’d ever worked before.[/i] He was supposed to speak with her this morning. That had been the plan—face it head-on, ask the questions he needed answers to, shake loose whatever truths his father had thrown into the mix. But when the time came… he didn’t. He kept drinking. Maybe he didn’t want the truth. Maybe he just wanted to keep the memory of that perfect night intact, unspoiled by the world’s usual bullshit. Maybe, just for once, he wanted to feel something good without it turning to ash in his hands. He stood, stretched, and winced at the creaking in his spine. The kind of ache that only came from years of sleeping on dirt floors and ducking blades that came a little too close. His eyes landed on the clothes laid out for him—an immaculate, hand-picked ensemble, sharp enough to draw blood. No doubt Calbert’s doing. The man was nothing if not painfully aware of optics. Cassius gave a half-smile. Not quite amused, not quite annoyed. He crossed to the vanity—something he was still getting used to seeing in his room—and ran a razor across his jaw, trading his usual mercenary scruff for something a little more court-approved. Just enough stubble to keep the edge. He didn't want to look too polished. Wouldn’t be him otherwise. Then came the clothes. Sapphire waistcoat. White linen shirt, crisp as fresh snow. Charcoal trousers that fit like sin and boots you could see your future in. Everything was tailored, expensive, probably cost more than most men’s lives were worth back on the battlefield. He looked...well, he looked good. He knew he looked good; like always. Every inch a Damien, even if he still didn’t know what the hell that meant. But something felt off all the same. Different, even. Maybe it was her. Maybe it was the way she looked at him like he wasn’t just some sword for hire with a bleeding past. Or maybe it was the quiet fear, buried under the bravado, that everything he touched would break eventually—including whatever the hell this was becoming between them. But Cassius Vael didn’t run from truth. Didn’t run from fire either. And if this was going to burn… he’d at least meet the flames with open eyes. First, though? He needed a drink. And lucky him—it was a good day for a banquet. [hr] The Damien carriage was jet black and polished like obsidian, drawn by a pair of immaculate steeds that looked like they could trample lesser men just for breathing too loud. The family crest—subtle but unmistakable—gleamed on the door like it had always belonged there. Cassius sat inside with his father, Calbert, who was as perfectly composed as ever, and Liliane, his stepmother, who had the sort of practiced elegance only nobility could teach themselves to wield like a blade. Across from him sat Crystal, his half-sister—still keeping her distance like he was a stranger from another world. Maybe he was. There was conversation, pleasant enough, small talk mostly, but it was nothing more than background noise to him. He watched the city roll by through the narrow window, his reflection cast faintly against the glass. A nobleman’s face now, apparently. Dressed to the nines, draped in House Damien finery, and headed straight into the lion’s den of Sorian society. The kind of place that chewed people up for having the wrong accent, let alone the wrong past. But he was immune to such a fate, because—of course—he was Cassius Vael. The carriage came to a smooth stop. A herald’s voice echoed out before he even touched the ground. “Presenting the Lord of House Damien and Earl of Montauppe, Count Calbert Damien… His wife, Lady Liliane Damien… their daughter, the lovely Lady Crystal Damien… and the good Count’s son…Lord Cassius Damien.” The doors opened, and the light hit him like a second spotlight. He stepped out behind his family, posture sharp, expression unreadable. A few heads turned—some with curiosity, others with skepticism. He felt it all but didn’t care. The introductions were done, the formalities observed. He followed his father and the others toward the thrones where the King and Queen awaited their due, dipping his head in the exact amount of respect required. No more. No less. He let his gaze pass over Edin and Alibeth without holding too long. Not his business. Not tonight. Once the bows were given and the courtesies exchanged, Cassius peeled off from the family with a smooth pivot and made straight for the banquet floor. Tables, people, movement—he saw all of it, and none of it. It was a blur of faces and noise, as if the world had been smeared by a wet brush. Too many things in his head. Too much weight dragging behind his eyes. He needed a drink. His eyes swept the crowd mechanically, not really landing on anyone until— There she was. [b]Charlotte.[/b] A ripple passed through his chest so quick it almost made him stop walking. His breath caught for half a second—not that anyone would notice. Not unless they were watching closely. She was radiant, of course. That damn kind of beautiful that didn’t need trying. The kind that crept into your ribs and lived there. And all he could think about was the kiss. The way she looked up at him with sleepy eyes in the carriage, like she wasn’t afraid of who he was or what he’d done. The way he’d carried her to the train, watched over her like she was something worth protecting. Because she was. And Delilah. Gods, Delilah catching them like they were teenagers sneaking a kiss behind the stables. The memory made him smirk despite himself. But the smirk didn’t last. Because then came his father’s cold, stern, and icy judgment. To him, she was not to be trusted. She was a criminal and a danger to house Damien. An enemy. The smirk faded. His jaw tightened. He flagged down a passing waiter with a casual flick of two fingers. [color=lightsteelblue]“Strongest thing you’ve got,”[/color] he said, all charm and teeth, eyes never leaving Charlotte. [color=lightsteelblue]“And please, make it quick and keep 'em coming, yeah? Turns out I have a mighty need.”[/color] He slid a hefty tip across the table to the man, who grabbed it with a gleeful nod and hurried away. Cassius let out a slow breath and rolled his shoulders back, trying to recenter himself. He didn’t like staring—wasn’t the kind of man to pine—but tonight his control was slipping, and the sight of her was too much. Too close. Too beautiful. Too damned complicated. He took the glass when it arrived without breaking eye contact with her. Then he sipped. Slow. Measured. Bitter. Because the truth was already here. And it burned more than anything in the glass. [/color]