Lucas steadied himself.
He drew in a breath—slow, sharp, measured like a blade being unsheathed—and let the pressure settle over his skin like a second layer. The ache in his bones remained, the coiling weight in his gut still churned, but he pushed them down.
Buried them beneath the calm he had cultivated through countless nights clawing at fate.
His eyes, cold and unwavering, locked onto the silhouette before him.
And then, with a voice as smooth as the silence before a storm, he spoke.
"Are you talking about Belthazor?"
The words rang clean through the corridor—clear, confident, and deliberate.
He saw the shimmer ripple.
A pause.
Like something behind that presence leaned back slightly, reassessing.
Good.
