The ughter and conversation slowly returned to its easy rhythm, but the echo of Ofelia’s departure lingered—like a scent that clung to the air no matter how the wind shifted.

  Cece exhaled softly, almost imperceptibly, then straightened her posture with practiced poise. “Well,” she said lightly, “it seems my cousin’s garden stroll may take a while.”

  Brígh offered a small, dry smile. “She’s… spirited.”

  “That’s one way to put it,” Monica murmured into her teacup.

  Cece said nothing more, but the precise way she adjusted her gloves—a fraction tighter than necessary—told me her mind wasn’t quite done with Ofelia yet.

  Before the conversation could drift again, an attendant stepped forward and bent to whisper discreetly into Cece’s ear.

  She blinked once, then smiled. “Ah, perfect timing.”

  Rising from her seat, she addressed the group with elegant crity. “Ladies, our carriages are ready. We’ll be heading to the viewing terrace near the Sword Tournament arena shortly.”

  A ripple of excitement moved through the table. Chairs were tucked in, parasols gathered, and skirts were dusted off with graceful hands.

  “I almost forgot that it was today,” Arian said, eyes bright. “My brother’s in the middle bracket—I hope we make it in time for his match!”

  “My cousin too,” Monica chimed in, csping her hands. “She said he’s trying out a dual-bde technique this year.”

  I stood with the others, smoothing the folds of my gown as I gnced at Eri. She was already slipping her gloves back on, calm as ever—looking entirely unbothered by having been publicly scolded over bugs.

  “I’ve always wanted to see the tournament up close. I’m curious if sword-fighting humans are more dramatic than my beetles duking it out.”

  Brígh giggled. “Somehow I feel like your beetles might be scarier.”

  Arian tilted her head. “Do you think the First Prince will really be there?”

  “He will,” Brígh added confidently. “My brother said he spotted him during the morning heats. Said he wished he could face him—but also that he’d probably lose in under a minute.”

  “Well, I do hope the viewing terrace offers us… a properly interesting view,” Cece said with a mischievous glint.

  “A view of sword cshing?” I asked with a teasing tone.

  Cece rolled her eyes, but a smile tugged at her lips sarcastically. “Something like that.”

  I gnced at her sidelong. She didn’t eborate—but I couldn’t help wondering just what kind of fateful scenario she was daydreaming about this time.

  We exited the garden together—a soft flurry of silk, whispers, and the lingering scent of roses trailing behind us like the st bloom of summer.

  The tea party had ended. But the next act was only beginning.

  Our carriages rolled into the heart of Commoners’ Square, their wheels humming steadily over uneven cobblestones. From the window, the soft view of Bourdelle’s garden slowly faded into the distance—repced by rising banners, packed spectators, and the distant roar of a crowd.

  Cheers surged like ocean waves, carried on the summer wind, thick with the scent of dust and anticipation.

  When the carriage door opened, the difference was immediate. No more parasols and painted fans. No more harp music and enchanted nterns.

  Just steel, sweat, and spectacle. A world far louder than the one we’d left behind.

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