The dungeon remains still after Lucian’s warning about willing completion, and the hum beneath the stone settles into a low contained resonance that feels patient rather than urgent, but the weight of what has already been revealed presses heavier than any tremor.
I do not step away from Axel or Atticus, and neither of them loosen their hold on me, because the bond between us feels necessary now rather than instinctive.
Lucian watches the three of us quietly, and the calculation in his eyes shifts into something that almost resembles inevitability.
“You are asking the wrong questions,” he says softly.
Axel’s jaw tightens.
“Then give us the right one,” he replies evenly.
Lucian’s gaze fixes on me.
“You believe your mother died of grief,” he says calmly.
The words strike deeper than
