Lucifer didn't move closer to the bed yet.
His eyes stayed fixed on Lilith, but he could already feel the subtle stir in the back of his mind—the deep, steady presence that was Damaris, coiled into the architecture of his system.
[That's more than enough, my son.]
The voice didn't come from the room. It came from everywhere inside his head at once, low and rich, carrying a weight that wasn't physical.
Lucifer's sight blurred for a heartbeat. When it sharpened, the edges of the chamber had softened. It was as though his vision was folding in on itself, focusing only on her.
Through his eyes, Damaris looked. And when he looked, it wasn't the stillness of the present he saw—it was the shape of years.
[She was always like this, you know. Even when she pretended she wasn't. Strong enough to make the realms kneel, yet she would smile as if she held nothing at all.]
Lucifer didn't answer. He let the old voice speak.
