The dungeon does not erupt when Lucian finishes speaking, and the stone does not crack or split beneath our feet, but the silence that follows feels dense and expectant as if the territory itself is waiting to see what we will do with what has just been revealed.
My pulse is steady.
The tether beneath my ribs is steady.
The bond between the three of us is not.
It changes.
Not violently.
Not in a surge that threatens to destabilize the borders.
It shifts like something aligning into place.
Axel’s hand remains at my shoulder, but I feel his posture change before I see it, and his weight redistributes subtly as if something beneath him has anchored more deeply into the foundation of the packhouse.
Atticus inhales sharply beside me, and the breath sounds different than before because
