Lucavion let the quiet settle, molding it with the ease of someone who had done this a hundred times before. Every word he spoke after that felt chosen—not for meaning alone, but for rhythm. The girls didn't even realize how he was pulling them in. His tone was soft enough to sound harmless, amused enough to sound human, yet every line drove the conversation exactly where he wanted it.
He didn't shout. He didn't threaten. He simply talked—and with each sentence, the temperature of the corridor dropped.
"No evidence…" he had murmured, almost to himself, and even that had weight. The words echoed against the marble, rolling back like the whisper of a blade being unsheathed.
When the black flame appeared at his fingertip, it was small, deliberate—just bright enough to draw their eyes. The air bent around it, shadows trembling in its wake. And as he spoke—about truth, memory, the way people rewrite what they can't face—his voice filled every space their fear left open.
