Liam was finally able to change into his usual clothes.

A normal dark blue shirt with a pair of trousers, dark brown shoes, and a watch. His hair was still down, mostly because Andreas had spent the last ten minutes trying to convince him that the reception suit would look more visually balanced if Liam allowed his hair to remain loose around his shoulders.

"I am not saying the corseted vest should return," Andreas said carefully, with the fragile diplomacy of a man who had already been wounded once that afternoon and had no intention of dying in the same room. "Only that the hair softens the line."

Liam looked at him through the mirror. "My line has suffered enough."

Andreas pressed one hand to his chest. "My lord, your line has been improved."

"My patience has not."

"Art requires sacrifice."

"Find a goat."

From the sofa, Mirelle made a pleased sound. "He is in good form again."

Enia, who had finally finished the tea she had ignored through most of the fitting, smiled faintly. "That means he has recovered from the jacket sleeves."

"I had pins near my wrist," Liam said.

"You had three pins near your wrist."

"That is how assassination begins."

Mirelle lifted one brow. "Usually assassination begins with poison, poor inheritance planning, or a second son with too much confidence."

"That sounds oddly specific."

"I have lived."

Andreas, wise enough not to ask follow-up questions, helped one of the assistants pack away the final fabric samples with the solemnity of a priest closing a cursed relic box.

Liam adjusted his watch and looked around the room.

It should have felt safe again.

The rejected corseted vest had been removed. Andreas had recovered most of his professional dignity. Enia and Mirelle had moved from protective fury back into familiar banter, the kind that had followed Liam through childhood like expensive perfume and sharp silverware. Even the assistants had stopped looking as if one wrong seam might cause a diplomatic incident.

Stanford was the only absence.

He had stayed behind to reposition the security after receiving a quiet message on his communicator. Liam had watched him listen, nod once, and step out with the calm authority of a man moving walls no one else could see. Two guards had remained in the rear corridor. Another pair had been sent toward the side entrance. Stanford himself had gone to check the perimeter shift because Arik was apparently on his way, and Arik arriving anywhere required people to reorganize the building’s survival prospects.

Liam had not objected.

At the time, that had seemed reasonable.

Now, stepping into the front hall with his mother and Mirelle walking beside him, he regretted every reasonable thought he had ever had.

Outside the atelier, the street was clean, quiet, and sunlit in the artificial way wealthy districts managed with ether-fed climate veils and polished stone. Enia adjusted her gloves as they crossed toward the entrance, while Mirelle looked over Liam with the critical satisfaction of someone who had lost the battle over the corseted vest but intended to win the war over ceremonial tailoring.

"You do realize," Mirelle said, "that Andreas will dream about that vest for weeks."

"Good," Liam replied. "Perhaps it will keep him away from me."

"He is wounded."

"He survived."

Enia touched Liam’s sleeve, smoothing a wrinkle that did not exist. "You were very clear, darling. That was good."

"Yes," he said. "Well. I am occasionally capable of communication."

Mirelle snorted, which seemed out of place in her image. "Occasionally."

Enia’s mouth curved, crimson eyes shining with amusement. "Very occasionally."

"I withdraw my gratitude."

"You never gave any," Mirelle said.

"I was implying it."

"Badly."

Liam was about to answer when the ether car pulled up.

It was black, sleek, and expensive enough for the atelier’s polished entrance to look suddenly modest. The engine made almost no sound, only a low, controlled hum beneath the body, the kind of refined ether pulse that screamed expensive.

For one foolish second, Liam thought Arik had sent it.

For another, warmer second, he thought Arik might be inside.

Then the rear window lowered.

Felix smiled at him from the back seat.

Everything inside Liam went silent.

The way a laboratory went silent after the wrong reading appeared on a monitor and every engineer in the room understood that something irreversible had already begun.

Enia moved first.

She stepped in front of him without hesitation.

Mirelle moved at the same time, placing herself half a step to Liam’s right. The two women did not speak. They did not need to. For all their teasing, their old arguments, their endless wars over fabric, posture, and court etiquette, they had clearly reached the same conclusion with perfect maternal brutality.

Felix could have the road.

He could have the car.

He could even have the first words.

He would not have Liam.

Liam tried to step back toward the atelier doors.

Felix’s eyes moved to him.

"Do not," he said softly.

Liam stopped.

The words weren’t loud, but the air changed around them, growing faintly sweet, faintly sharp, and horribly familiar in a way Liam felt before he understood.

Poison.

’So this is the poison Arik and Marin were talking about.’

His fingers curled once at his side.

’You evil snake...’

Enia felt that something was wrong too. Her shoulders stiffened, but she did not retreat.

Mirelle’s face emptied of all amusement.

"Felix," Enia said, her voice calm enough to be terrifying. "Leave."

Felix’s smile widened.

"Enia," he said, as if greeting an old acquaintance at a garden party rather than threatening her child in front of a tailoring house. "Still giving orders from doorways, I see."

Mirelle’s lips curved. "And you are still arriving uninvited. Some habits age badly."

"Unlike you," Felix said. "Still decorative."

"Unlike you," Mirelle replied. "I still look my age and not like a mummy someone dressed for court."

For one small, vicious second, the air almost belonged to Mirelle.

Liam would have appreciated that more if the sweetness in the air had not thickened.

Felix’s smile did not disappear, but something behind it sharpened.

"How charming," he said. "The Armstrong tongue survived."

"So did your face," Mirelle said. "Tragic for everyone."

"Mirelle," Enia murmured.

"What?" Mirelle did not take her eyes off Felix. "If we are being threatened in public, I would prefer to be honest."

Felix laughed softly.

It was not a pleasant sound.

"No," he said. "You would prefer to be brave. There is a difference."

The poison in the air curled closer, thin and sweet and horribly familiar.

Liam felt it before he saw the assistant near the doorway sway.

Enia’s hand closed around his wrist.

Mirelle’s smile vanished.