Dread had an ugly talent for stretching time.
Toven heard the correction perfectly.
"Oth-mer-ain, Master Vaulenne."
Three syllables.
He had read the name from the dossier perhaps six times. He had repeated worse Arcanian names throughout Kaleran's lessons, memorized titles attached to family trees that required diagrams, and practiced pronunciation until Mireilla once threatened him with a pillow after the seventh repetition of Valtherienne.
Then his first proper exchange began, and he mangled Othmerain.
Lord Maelor's smile remained politely in place.
Heat crawled along Toven's neck.
The steward stood several steps behind him. Servants crossed between the furniture with silver trays. Dowager Countess Merial waited beside the hearth, exactly as the dossier had shown her. Beyond the transparent mana veil, the observation section had a perfect view.
Everyone nearby had heard.
