The door to Lucian's quarters hissed shut, sealing him in a silence that felt heavier than the void outside. The room was too small, the walls too close. Every breath felt loud.
He paced. Three steps from the viewport to the bed. Turn. Three steps back. The rhythm was frantic, useless, but he couldn't stop. His boots were the only sound, a dull tap-tap-tap on the floor.
He stopped at the window, bracing his hands on the cool surface. Earth hung below, a blue and white marble, peaceful from up here. It was a lie. That peace was a scar over a wound his father had carved.
"Alistair."
The name was ash in his mouth. It used to be a prayer. The man in the old, faded photos. The one with the strong hands who taught him how to throw a punch. The voice that said, "Protect your family, Lucian. That's all that matters." He'd built his whole life on that memory. It was the foundation of everything—the Citadel, his strength, his goddamn name.
And the foundation was rotten.
