The chamber was quiet, save for the faint sound of crickets outside the window and the soft clink of porcelain as Lucian set his cup down. The tea was long cold, but he had lingered over it anyway, using it as an anchor while his thoughts spiraled.
The hunt.
It hadn't been in the book. Not once, not in passing, not even in Reniel's carefully constructed tragedies. Lucian remembered every chapter clearly, the major events laid out like a map, the deaths, the betrayals, the confessions, the slow descent of the trio into obsession. But no hunt.
His brow furrowed faintly as he leaned back, eyes flicking toward the canopy of his bed.
So things are shifting already… because of me.
