Lucavion's voice remained steady, but something in his tone had shifted—something colder, something distant. As if he was no longer speaking from a warm bath in the present but standing once more on the blood-soaked fields of Valerius, where everything had gone wrong.
"They fell one by one," he murmured. "I saw it happen right in front of me. And I couldn't do anything."
Vitaliara didn't speak. She simply listened.
"Garret was first."
The name hung in the air for a second before Lucavion continued, his fingers tightening against the stone ledge of the bath.
"The moment I realized the enemy's rank—the moment I understood what we were dealing with—it was already too late."
The words were too calm. Too controlled.
Like he had told himself this story over and over again, smoothing out the raw edges of grief, hammering it into something cold and sharp.
"The knight—Aldric—vanished from his spot."
A pause.
"And then—"
—SWOOSH!
Lucavion's body tensed, the memory sharp as a blade.
