The chamber had gone still, but Dominic remained awake. He stood in his quarters, arms folded behind his back, gazing through the tall window that overlooked the moonlit edge of the estate. He wasn't watching anything in particular. His eyes were sharp, but turned inward.
Thoughts of Damien looped like a slow-burning mantra.
[Cradle of Primordials.]
He didn't say it aloud. The words didn't need voice to weigh heavy.
It was the oldest method. The rawest. The one their house hadn't dared use for over five centuries.
Not because it was forbidden.
Because it was lethal.
The Cradle did not coax a core into forming. It didn't teach. It devoured. It broke the Awakened down to dust, pulled them through the eye of the storm, and remade what was left—if anything remained.
Dominic's jaw tensed slightly.
He had known it would come to this. Known the moment Damien asked to awaken through it.
But still.
He didn't want to lose his son.
