The early morning air still hung cool and quiet, the rising sun barely brushing gold across the edge of the sky. But down at the ledge—where sea met stone and fate had made its quiet entrance—Luke stood, his mind a quiet tempest.
The words spoken between them still lingered, heavy with meaning. Saint Cynthia's revelation had left Luke shaken, but more than that, it had changed him. He could no longer deny the truth of it. This wasn't a coincidence. His arrival, his survival, even the useless little phone in his pocket—they all meant something.
But even if he could accept that, there was still the question scratching at the back of his throat.
"So… what now?"
His voice broke the silence that had briefly fallen between the three of them. Ilyrana glanced at him, her brows gently raised. Saint Cynthia, serene as ever, kept her gaze fixed on Luke, the glint of something old and knowing flickering in her eyes.
