He could not tell her. Telling her would mean explaining how he knew Clara was missing. Explaining how he knew would mean explaining his connection to the Aurelion household. Explaining the connection would mean explaining Seraphyne. Explaining Seraphyne would mean explaining everything — the baby, the thrall, the blood pact, the web of favours and threats and centuries-old debts that held the Great Houses together like stitches in a wound.
And the wound would open. And the blood would flow. And Clara would not be found any faster, and Isadora would be in more danger, and the careful, agonising, soul-destroying architecture of lies that Caelan had built to keep everyone alive would collapse, and someone — probably Isadora, probably always Isadora — would be crushed beneath the rubble.
"I cannot tell you," he said.
Three words. Quiet. Final. The voice of a man who had just chosen silence over truth and knew the cost and was paying it with every fibre of his being.
