Lucian stood alone in the garden long after the others had gone inside. The moon hung low and heavy, silver light spilling across the stone paths like spilled milk. He hadn't moved in what felt like hours. Just stood there, hands loose at his sides, staring north toward the distant rift that had swallowed his students and the woman he had crossed realities to find.
The night air smelled of damp earth and night-blooming flowers. Somewhere behind him, faint voices drifted from the keep—Lucy's laugh mixing with Althea's quieter one, Marc arguing with Silas about something trivial. Normal sounds. Family sounds. They had fought so hard to have this again, and now it felt fragile, like glass held too tightly.
He closed his eyes.
