For a moment, Elian didn't move, like he was still thinking about the ice cream he tasted just moments ago. Then the silver spoon slipped from his fingers with a soft clink against the tiled floor.
The echo rippled like a dropped sword--quiet, but final.
His expression remained flat, carved from marble—but Lucian saw it: a flicker of tension beneath the stillness. He observed the slight tremor in Lucian's jaw, and an exhale held for too long.
Elian's Grimoire fluttered at his side, pages rustling like wings made of razors. It was shackled to him, trying to overwrite something it couldn't name.
Lucian stepped forward with one hand on the spine of his own Grimoire. It pulsed with heat--not light--like a heart just starting to race.
"That was your memory, wasn't it?" Lucian said softly. "You weren't born into the Order. You were chosen to replace me."
Elian's eyes flicked to him—sharp and unblinking. "I wasn't chosen. I was trained."
