'If he rejected both Lucien and Selienne… who is he listening to?'
Priscilla felt her breath shallow.
The idea settled uncomfortably in her chest.
Either he was being backed by someone so well-hidden it escaped even her senses—or—
He was walking this path on his own.
Which, in some ways, was worse.
"Then he's either protected by a ghost…"
"Or driven by something I don't understand."
Which left the last possibility—
He's mad.
Not in the flailing, wild-eyed sense.
But in the way only visionaries and monsters are.
He wasn't aligning with anyone.
He was walking between them.
And that was why they were all watching him.
Lucien. Selienne. The courtiers. The academy heads.
Priscilla's eyes narrowed, lashes casting shadows like blades against her cheekbones.
"Let's just say," he murmured, "I'm not the only one who's tired of illusions."
That line. That cryptic, maddening line.
