"Are you speaking the truth, my lord?"
The question came low and careful, as if the man feared that speaking too loudly might shatter the possibility itself.
The older noble Jiang Ning, who had interrupted, stood a little straighter now, his sharp gaze fixed on Jiang's face. Up close, the signs were clearer. His posture was rigid, disciplined, but there was a faint tremor in his breathing, a subtle stiffness in the way his shoulders rose and fell. Not the bearing of age, but of strain.
Jiang Ning offered a polite smile, neither warm nor distant. "This doesn't seem like a conversation suited for the banquet hall," he said mildly. "If you're willing, we can speak somewhere quieter."
The noble hesitated.
Around them, laughter rang out, cups clinked, servants moved briskly between tables, and nobles leaned in close to gossip about the tournament's shocking results. This was a place for celebration, not confessions.
Yet the hesitation only lasted a heartbeat.
