The room was back where it belonged—beneath him.
Beneath the weight of lineage, of precision, of absolute poise. And the nobility, those eternal vultures draped in etiquette, had remembered once more who taught the sky how to burn.
Lucien allowed himself a breath.
Controlled.
Delighted.
Until—
Their eyes met.
Lucavion hadn't stood. Hadn't moved.
But he was smiling.
Lucien's breath stilled.
'…!'
Not a smirk. Not a trembling mask of defiance. But something far worse.
Calm.
Almost amused.
As if the rope Lucien had so elegantly braided was, to him, a ribbon. As if mercy wasn't feared. As if—
—it hadn't touched him at all.
Lucien's gaze narrowed, almost imperceptibly.
'You…'
The boy's posture hadn't changed. His expression hadn't faltered. But those pitch-black eyes—
They didn't reflect Lucien.
They consumed him.
'Why?'
