The whispers started almost immediately, spreading through the crowd in overlapping waves:
'Both suits—'
'Is that the imperial processional—'
'Look at the jewelry on him—'
'She's holding his hand, she's 'holding his hand'—'
'What does this mean for the five—'
'He's stunning, honestly—'
'This changes everything—'
Heena heard fragments of all of it and registered none of it. She kept her gaze on the dais ahead, her expression calm, her head up.
Beside her, Larus did the same. His face was composed, his walk was perfect. The only sign that he was experiencing anything at all was the slight, almost imperceptible increase of pressure in his grip as they passed the noisiest section of the crowd.
She squeezed back once. Brief, small.
His posture relaxed slightly.
