Michael studied her face for a while.
Evidently, this princess was quite knowledgeable.
Michael inclined his head slightly.
"The short version," he began evenly, "is that I was fortunate enough to recognize the illusion early. I managed to force myself out of it—"
Without, he added silently, mentioning that he’d done so by nearly dislocating his own rib.
"—and once I was free, I began searching the premises. It didn’t take long to locate the source of the spell."
Arianne’s eyes widened a fraction. "And the perpetrators?"
Michael shook his head, his tone regretful but calm.
"Gone by the time I reached them. They left no trace worth following."
Technically true—though he neglected to mention why they’d left no trace.
He gestured vaguely toward the entrance.
"As for why you were out here," he continued, "I carried you both outside for your safety. In case there were any lingering enchantments or traps in the hall. Now that the array is destroyed, I was returning you."
Arianne took this in slowly.
Michael couldn’t help but feel a small flicker of satisfaction at how cleanly the lies fit together.
In fact, he was rather impressed with himself.
Arianne released a quiet, measured sigh.
"I see," she said after a moment, though he could tell she was already filing away questions for later.
Her gaze shifted past him, to the dark elf still slung across his shoulder like a silent burden.
Michael’s expression didn’t change.
But as if sensing she’d become the subject of discussion, the dark elf finally shifted.
Her breathing changed—no longer the feigned, measured rhythm of someone pretending.
Slowly, Lyra lifted her head.
Her eyes opened—pale, expressionless silver—and fixed on Michael.
He met her gaze calmly.
Lyra studied him in silence for a moment, as though weighing whether to resume her charade.
Then, with a quiet exhale, she shifted her weight and spoke in a low, almost indifferent voice.
"You may put me down as well."
Then he sighed inwardly.
Well. That saves me the trouble of pretending I didn’t know.
Wordlessly, he set her down, releasing her as she slid gracefully to her feet.
Unlike Arianne, Lyra didn’t bother straightening her clothing or looking away.
She merely inclined her head once, cool and composed, and then stepped aside without a word.
Michael decided that was good enough.
He was just turning back toward the main hall, ready to move on and be done with all of this, when Arianne’s voice stopped him.
He paused, glancing over his shoulder.
Arianne looked faintly unsettled.
"My father," she said carefully. "We should look for him."
Michael’s brow creased slightly.
He didn’t particularly care for politics or titles, but Duke Evermoon was somewhat, just somewhat, of an acquaintance.
Michael gave a small, accepting nod.
"Very well," he said. "We’ll check room fifteen first."
Arianne looked faintly relieved.
Lyra, standing beside her, only watched in silence—her expression unreadable.
Michael didn’t spare her another glance.
He turned back to the hall, boots echoing across the cold marble, and started forward again.
If there was any more chaos to clean up tonight, he intended to get it over with as quickly as possible.
He had no intention of staying any longer than he had to.
It didn’t take long for them to find the hallway of private suites.
Room fifteen was near the end.
Michael slowed, letting Arianne step up beside him. Her breathing was a little uneven, but her face was composed.
He lifted a hand to knock—
The voice was deep, resonant, and calm.
Arianne startled faintly at the suddenness of it. She shot Michael a glance, but he wasn’t surprised. Neither was Lyra, whose gaze remained fixed steadily on the door.
They had both already sensed the presence within.
Michael pushed the door open and stepped through.
The room was illuminated by the soft, golden glow.
And at the center of it all stood Duke Evermoon.
His eyes rested on his daughter with a smile on his face.
In his hands, he held a small, lacquered box carved with delicate swirling sigils.
Michael’s gaze flicked to it—and lingered a heartbeat too long.
He knew, without needing to ask, that it was the miracle fruit.
And in that moment—just for an instant—the thought of robbing the old man came.
Michael pulled his gaze away, forcing the thought back into the darkness where it belonged.
The Duke turned fully to face them, his pale eyes measuring each of them in turn before finally settling on Michael.
For a moment, there was only quiet.
Then he inclined his head, just a fraction, but with the unmistakable gravity of a man unaccustomed to offering thanks lightly.
"You have my gratitude, Sir Mic," he said calmly.
Arianne’s brows shot up, her gaze darting from her father to Michael.
It wasn’t the gratitude that surprised her—but the ease, the familiarity of it.
Almost as if they’d...spoken before.
Perhaps even come to some sort of agreement.
Her lips parted, a question forming—but she bit it back, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully instead.
Michael only inclined his head again, his expression polite, controlled.
"I did what I could, Your Grace."
The Duke studied him in silence for another heartbeat, then his gaze flicked to Lyra, who stood motionless near the door. He seemed to take in her presence without surprise before returning his attention to Michael.
"Were you able to capture any of the culprits?"
It was the question that finally made Arianne realize.
They met inside the illusion.
That was the only explanation.
Her father’s certainty about Michael’s role.
And if he’d met Michael there, then he must have seen at least some of what had transpired.
Michael kept his gaze on the Duke, voice steady.
"Unfortunately, no," he said evenly. "By the time I reached the ritual chamber, it was already too late. They left nothing worth following."
Technically true, he reminded himself again.
The Duke’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of something.