It was a ripple.
The world blinked open not in color, but in motion.
Not vision—pulse.
And there, surrounding Priscilla's head—Lucavion saw it. A distortion. Like a lens bent too tightly around the temples. A spiral of delicate pressure, almost woven. The energy wasn't crackling. It wasn't aggressive.
It was symphonic.
A spell with form and rhythm and compression so precise it barely left a shimmer. But it was there.
"Got it," he said quietly.
Vitaliara stilled.
[You saw it.]
"Yes."
Vitaliara went still.
There was no tension—just a long pause. A silence shaped not by uncertainty, but by recognition.
Then, slowly, she turned her gaze toward him, meeting his eyes through that strange tether only they shared.
And sighed.
[Sometimes I forget the monstrosity you are.]
Lucavion quirked a brow. "Charming."
