Valerian did not speak at once.
The silence that followed his mother's words thickened, stretching and settling into the corners of the chamber like a living thing. It pressed against the walls, against the air itself, until even the faint crackle of the hearth felt intrusive—too loud, too present, as though the fire dared to disturb what should not be disturbed.
No mark was found.
The words echoed relentlessly in his mind, sharp and unforgiving, striking again and again with the force of a hammer against stone. It made no sense. Not to him. Not after everything.
His hands were clenched tightly upon his knees, fingers digging into muscle and bone as though he could anchor himself there. Once—only once—they trembled. The smallest betrayal of control.
He forced stillness into them immediately.
Valerian Stormborne did not tremble.
He did not falter, he did not lose control.
