Chapter 814: Let us hold a competition (2)
Thalor took a step forward—not toward Lucavion, but into the room itself. The space seemed to open for him, not by command, but by inevitability. His presence stretched outward, now crowned with the attention of dozens.
He raised his glass slightly—not in toast, but as a gesture of presence, of ownership over the silence he had created.
"I’m glad," he began, his voice calm and resonant, "to see I’ve earned everyone’s attention tonight."
The words coasted smoothly across the air, carried by the lingering note of mana that still hummed faintly in the crystal. Measured. Unhurried. The voice of someone used to speaking to rooms designed to listen.
"For those who may not know me," he continued, tone sliding effortlessly into polite aristocracy, "I am Thalor Draycott. Of House Draycott."
He let the name settle.
No need to explain further. Not here. Not to this crowd.
The Draycott name was etched into the marble of Arcanis politics—wealth, war, and influence braided into a single identity. If someone didn’t know it, they weren’t worth the correction.
He lowered his glass, eyes drifting back—casually, almost fondly—to Lucavion.
Thalor’s smile softened, touched with humility that felt just practiced enough to seem sincere.
"As both a mage of the Tower," he said, voice carrying effortlessly, "and a noble of this Empire, I feel it is only right that I begin with an apology."
He turned his gaze outward again, addressing the hall—not with shame, but with the dignity of someone cleaning a stain from his family crest.