The tap was gentle. Almost hesitant.
But it came again—twice, light as rainfall—on the slope of her shoulder. Not insistent, but anchoring.
And this time, the voice was unmistakable.
"…Are you okay?"
Elara didn't move. Not at first. Her breath was still too loud in her own ears, her heart a ragged, defiant drum against the corseted frame of her illusion. The mask Eveline crafted was holding, but barely. Cracks spread in the places she couldn't see—along the spine of her silence, behind the hollows of her throat.
But the voice was still there.
His voice.
Low, smooth, even playful in its undertones. That same cadence he always used when slipping beneath people's guards—half curiosity, half mockery, like the world was some game he understood better than anyone else.
Lucavion.
When did he come this close?
She didn't know.
