"Tell me, Princess. If there was a ship—one that leaked every time it touched water—what would you do?"
Priscilla frowned, caught off guard. "What does that have to do with—"
"Would you patch it every time it leaked?" he asked, interrupting gently, his tone still even. "Running to mend the same spot over and over, hoping it lasts one more day?"
He paused, the faint gleam of the terrace lamps catching on his eyes. "Or would you replace it? Build something stronger. Something that doesn't need saving each time it falters."
Her heartbeat quickened. She wanted to look away, but his voice held her still.
"People are the same," Lucavion said softly. "If I keep patching holes for you, you'll never learn how to make the hull hold."
The words struck deep. She hated that part of her understood what he meant—that quiet, merciless logic beneath his calm.
