It did not make sense.
It couldn't make sense.
Damien - Writing said:
She had stared at the mirror-slab, thinking—this is a joke.
It had to be.
Damien, of all people? The boy who once faked an injury to skip an instructor's lecture on basic mana resonance? Who yawned through dinner meetings and treated tradition like theater?
But looking at Vivienne's face… and Dominic's, silent beside her with that same rare grimness that only surfaced when something truly mattered…
No.
They weren't joking.
Vivienne Valeheart did not joke. Not with her.
Not with the Matriarch.
And certainly not about the Cradle.
"I don't understand," Erin had murmured, gaze narrowing. "You're telling me he chose this?"
"He did," Vivienne replied, voice clipped. "He asked us directly. Said it was time."
Erin could feel the lie—or rather, the lack of one. The threads of their voices, their expressions, their intentions—none of them carried falsehood.
It was real.
