The study fell silent. Trafalgar's words still hung in the air like a blade: a way to find Mordrek's killer.
It was no small claim. The Morgains, with all their power, resources, and reach, hadn't managed to track a wounded dragon hiding somewhere in their vast territories. For a sixteen-year-old to suddenly declare he might know? It shook the air itself.
Valttair leaned back, his expression unreadable, gray eyes narrowing slightly.
Armand, however, did not share his son's restraint. The older man's calm façade cracked; fury bled into the room like smoke. This was no longer the grandfather Trafalgar had glimpsed by the cemetery. This was the true Morgain patriarch — cold, merciless, defined by the sharp edge of loss.
Armand's voice was low, but it cut deeper than a shout. "Can you back that up, boy?"
