The morning air outside Cassius's quarters was sharp and brisk, stinging against my skin.
I pulled my cloak tighter around myself and headed down the long corridor, my boots clicking softly on the stone floors.
The castle was beginning to wake — servants moving quietly, the distant clatter of kitchens coming to life — but it still felt too quiet. Like the world was holding its breath.
I needed time to think.
Time to breathe. Every piece of information just felt so much for me at the moment.
But apparently, fate had other plans.
Lucas was leaning against the corridor wall when I turned the corner, arms crossed loosely over his chest, a faint, knowing smirk curling his mouth.
He looked infuriatingly relaxed — his black tunic rumpled, his hair tousled by the wind — as if he'd just strolled out of a tavern and not a fortress built on blood.
"Rough morning, storm girl?" he drawled lazily, pushing off the wall with a grace that seemed almost deliberate.
