Cedric was already looking into her eyes.
Not like the others. Not like Selphine, who dissected people the way surgeons sliced flesh—cold and efficient. Not like Marian, who swung between warmth and wariness. Not like the twins, whose gazes flickered only when there was blood to scent.
No—Cedric's stare was still. Anchored. Not confused. Not accusatory.
Just… quiet.
And that quietness unnerved her more than any accusation would have.
Because in that quiet was understanding. Or at least the outline of it. The shape of someone who knew her—or thought he did—trying to map what the hell this interaction meant. Why Lucavion? Why now? And more urgently: Why like that?
Her breath caught—not in guilt. Not in fear.
In wrongness.
The feeling curled tight in her chest, sharp and irrational.
'Why does it feel like I've done something wrong?'
She hadn't. She knew that.
