A month later, the fragments still sat like ghosts on the edges of Gabriel's desk. Thin sheets of crystal etched with half-burned runes, their surfaces blackened and cracked where poison had eaten the channels clean. He had traced them again and again, searching for patterns where the lines stuttered and broke, his notes spilling into untidy stacks that even Astana hadn't dared touch.
The noon sun cut through the high windows of the dining room, scattering across polished silver and porcelain. Arik sat between them, his dark curls damp from morning lessons, his fork stubbornly prodding at a pile of green vegetables he had no interest in.
"Vegetables first," Damian said, voice calm but edged with that imperious weight he carried everywhere. His golden eyes flicked down at his son's plate with all the gravity of a council decree.
Arik wrinkled his nose, stabbing one piece of broccoli and dragging it through the sauce like a soldier pulling a corpse. "They're bitter."
