Felix never came near Seraphina's palace.
That, at least, was one mercy.
For years, he remained in the northern moon palace, pale and polished and distant, appearing beside Goliath only when court ceremony demanded it. He was never rude, loud, or foolish enough to insult the staff or slight another consort where witnesses could carry the story.
He was decent. Perfectly decent.
That was perhaps what made Amara dislike him more.
Bad men were easier when they behaved badly. Then all knew in what form the danger came. Felix did nothing one could point to. He smiled softly, spoke with flawless courtesy, accepted his place, and moved through the imperial court like cold water beneath thin ice.
Amara saw him sometimes from balconies, across gardens, and through the shifting bodies of court functions. Pale hair. White and gold. Soft purple eyes that never looked hurried, never looked hungry, never looked angry.
