Lucavion didn't stop walking. Not until the fog coiled around his boots and the wisteria-framed alcove pulled him into its hush.
Then—he lifted his gaze.
And their eyes met.
His were black. Not like coal, not like ink. Not even like shadow. They were obsidian in stormlight—depthless, unblinking, and polished so dark they caught reflections like mirrors.
She saw herself there.
Just a flicker. A ghost of a girl in grey, outlined in silver mist and softened by distance. But unmistakably—her.
'Will he recognize me?'
The thought wasn't panicked. It wasn't even fearful.
It was… suspended. Like a breath held too long.
Because what would that mean?
If Lucavion looked at her—not Elowyn Caerlin, baron's daughter from Caedrim Reach—but her, truly her… Elara of House Lorian.
How can you look at me like that?
