Lucien had grown accustomed to silence.
It was the kind that followed him into council chambers, the kind that hung heavy over strategy tables where once he would have bantered with his men. He gave orders as General of the Royal Forces, his voice crisp and unwavering, but something hollow lived beneath the surface.
A month had passed since Isadora vanished. At least, in Veridium it had.
To the court, she had simply fallen ill. That was the excuse Sephrina offered again and again in her honeyed voice whenever someone asked why the Lady of D'Amore no longer appeared at the garden gatherings or walked the palace halls. She played her part flawlessly, every gesture borrowed from the woman she sought to erase. Her smile was soft, her touch calculated, and her words crafted with poisonous precision.
But Lucien was not fooled.
