"What gave you those scars, Ophelia?" Cyrus asked, a small frown pulling between his brows. His eyes had already checked twice, calm but sharp, like he was making sure he wasn't seeing wrong. Those lines on her hands—thin, fresh, already healing—were not dirt. They were scars.
Ophelia's hand paused mid-air. The spoon hovered. She looked down at her own fingers like they belonged to someone else, then let out a tiny, nervous giggle that sounded like it wanted to run and hide. "Oh, don't worry about it, it's nothing," she said, eyes skittering away.
Cyrus didn't buy it. He didn't even blink. He had that steady way of looking that made lies feel heavy.
Before he could speak again, a voice came from the doorway—low, unhappy. Valen, who had been standing behind the wall this whole time, stepped into view at the entrance but still didn't cross the line. "Nothing?" he repeated, disbelief written clear on his face.
Ophelia's head snapped up. Her eyes went wide. "Valen—"
