Lucian studies my face carefully.
“You have adapted quickly,” he observes, “power suits you.”
“It is not about power,” I say.
He smiles faintly at that, like he does not believe me.
Atticus steps closer still, one of the tools now resting loosely in his hand, not raised, not used, but present enough to make the threat tangible.
“What is bound beneath this land,” Atticus repeats, his voice quieter now, more dangerous for the restraint in it.
Lucian’s eyes flick down briefly to the ropes soaked in poison, and I can see the faint tremor in his fingers where the toxin is still working through him.
“You assume I am your enemy in this,” he says.
“You are,” Axel replies flatly.
Lucian’s gaze returns to me.
“You killed your own father,” he says slowly, as if tasting the words.
“Yes.”
“
