The corridor was cold. The torches lining the stone walls flickered, casting long, trembling shadows that seemed to mock Liora's unsteady steps. Her vision blurred, not from lack of light but from the sting of unshed tears. She pressed her palm against the wall, forcing herself forward, away from him, away from the weight of truths half-spoken.
Her mind spun. Her parents. A Blackthorne's ambition. His silence.
Every breath she took was a war between grief and rage.
"Liora?"
The voice snapped her from her thoughts. Rowan Vale emerged from the shadows, his dark cloak brushing the floor. His sharp eyes swept over her face, catching the shimmer of tears she couldn't quite hide.
"You're pale," he said, frowning. "What did he do?"
Her lips parted, but no words came. She couldn't speak, not yet.
Rowan's jaw clenched, and for a moment his composure slipped, his hand twitching as if he would storm past her into Lucien's chamber. "If he hurt you..."
