She didn't speak right away.
The cup before her still held its warmth, the faint trail of steam coiling upward like the breath of a thought not yet spoken. But Priscilla Lysandra wasn't thinking of tea anymore.
She was thinking of threads.
Of questions.
Of the pieces she had spent weeks gathering—scattered, incomplete, but not meaningless.
Reynald Vale.
That name alone had been a riddle. A boy polished like a knight but not born from any court. No family seals. No provincial registration. No service records. She had dug, pressed her informants harder than usual. Still—nothing.
And that silence… it was telling.
Because if she couldn't find it, it meant someone had buried it.
Which led her back to one person.
Lucien.
Everything about Reynald's style—his blade art, his presence, even his carefully measured fame—reeked of Lucien's schemes. His obsession with symbols. With control through spectacle.
And Lucavion?
Lucavion had struck directly at it.
No hesitation.
No pause.
