[Rynthall Estate, Silas's Office]
The skies over Rynthall darkened.
Not because of rain.
But because of reputation.
Every noble in the region felt it—the shift. The whisper of a storm in expensive boots. A cold breeze of judgment. An invisible slap of ancestral disapproval. Somewhere, a duchess dropped her wine glass. Somewhere else, a baby stopped crying and started contemplating taxes.
Inside the estate, in the very heart of the chaos, Lucien stood frozen.
Elysia was in his arms, pacifier hanging from her mouth like a forgotten treaty. Her glittery eyes stared toward the horizon with the solemn wisdom of someone who had seen war. And possibly caused it.
Lucien turned slowly to Alphonso.
Then lunged.
He grabbed the man by his collar, shaking him with all the strength of a sleep-deprived parent on the edge of a noble breakdown. "WHEN—" Lucien's voice cracked like a failing chandelier, "WHEN DID SILAS HAVE A FATHER?!"
Alphonso blinked.
"Um… from the day he was born?"
