Elara's hand still trembled faintly.
She'd steadied her fork. Smoothed her expression. Exhaled the storm tightening in her chest. No one would see it now. Not Selphine. Not the twins. Certainly not Lucavion.
But her heart hadn't settled.
The moment Selphine had asked the question—"Are you from the Lorian Empire?"—something in Elara's spine had locked. Not at the sound of his name. But at the implication. The way a single line could peel back a person like parchment, exposing what lay written beneath.
It wasn't just the question.
It was the idea of it.
That someone's origin could be named, pointed at, revealed—in a dining hall, over bread and laughter and a few casual words. As if it were nothing.
As if it weren't the most dangerous thing of all.
For one breath, one sliver of a second, Elara felt like she was the one being asked. Like her name might light up on someone's tongue next. Like her own threads might begin to unravel, just as easily.
She hated that feeling.
