Priscilla.
Of all the outcomes Thalor might have predicted—of all the carefully laid expectations and patterns he used to navigate this godforsaken pit of snakes—this one wasn't on the list.
Priscilla.
With him.
She hadn't said it clear with words, of course. No dramatic proclamation. No hand placed gently on Lucavion's sleeve. But she didn't need to. The way she had stood beside him, chin raised, voice unshaken—that was more than enough.
She vouched for him.
She vouched for him.
Thalor's gaze flicked from her to Lucavion again, and for a moment, it wasn't boredom in his chest. It was heat.
Not quite rage.
Not yet.
But something brewing. Something old.
He remembered when they were younger. When people whispered about their engagement like it was fate spun in gold. He remembered standing at her side when it mattered, when everything was still pliable. Before titles. Before inheritance. Before she learned how to cut with silence.
