The gala had been over for two hours.
Vane stood in the quiet of the kitchen. He wasn't making anything. Both hands were planted flat against the cold marble counter—a stance he adopted when he needed something to hold him up, but refused to look like he was leaning. On the shelf directly in front of him sat the third-version blend. He hadn't touched it.
Outside, Varum was running its late-night cycle. The second district was quiet; the first district was practically dead. The imperial reception hall would be dark by now, the oppressive weight of the Emperor's Domain completely wiped from its walls and ceiling, the temperature returned to a peaceful ambient hum.
He heard Varian before the man even entered the room.
