"Heh…"
The sound slipped from Damien's throat, soft and amused—almost involuntary. A dry curl at the edge of his mouth followed, not smug but something deeper. Knowing.
Vivienne's gaze flicked toward him. "What's so funny?"
He didn't look up from the war table. "Nothing."
"Damien," she said, voice steady, but with that slight tilt—half challenge, half curiosity.
He finally glanced over. "Relax," he said. "I've just… got a few candidates in mind."
He turned back toward the interface, fingers moving more deliberately now. The pulsing names—six of them now—stood out like quiet embers in a field of cold glass. Not the brightest profiles. Not the safest. Not even the most compatible on paper.
But they had something.
He hovered over each one in turn. Renia Mallor. Kallis Vorn. Dren Ko. Lysa Evens. Jaro Tren. Even Myla Drey from earlier, who the system had ranked modestly but whose glow he noticed now that he was looking for it.
Each of them came with a different set of risks.
