Chester went entirely still. The theatrical, fluid grace that usually defined him seemed to evaporate, leaving behind a heavy, uncharacteristic silence. The raw vulnerability in her question—What am I to you?—didn't just catch him off guard; it stripped away his carefully crafted masks, exposing the jagged, unresolved edges beneath.
"Jericho..." he murmured, his voice losing its velvet charm, replaced by a low, gravelly rasp.
Jericho didn't wait for his rehearsed excuses. She stood up abruptly, her fingers clawing at the fabric over her chest as if trying to restrain the panic rising within her. "Did you not tell me once, in that very darkness, that you would never do anything to harm me? Bringing her here, digging up Silver's ghost and the King's shadow... it ruins us both! You know damn well I never want to face my father again! I refuse to go back to that nightmare, Chester! I broke my own bones to escape it!"
