Lucien sensed the fracture before anyone spoke.
It was not sound or movement, but absence—the way the palace seemed to inhale and forget to exhale. Corridors that had once hummed faintly with life now carried only the echo of his own footsteps. Servants bowed too quickly. Doors closed too gently.
He had learned to read these things.
Silence in the Four Families was never empty.
It was preparatory.
The observatory lay far from the central halls, built during an older age when the families still pretended knowledge could be harmless. Narrow windows cut the darkness into clean angles, their glass cold beneath Lucien's fingertips as he traced the stars his tutors insisted were fixed.
The river did not whisper.
That was wrong.
It had been present these past days—distant, restrained, but aware. Now it pressed against him like a held breath, heavy and expectant.
The knock came without urgency.
Three taps. Evenly spaced.
Lucien did not turn.
"Enter," he said.
The door opened just enough for a figure to pass through, then closed with a sound so soft it felt deliberate. Lucien recognized the man by the way the room seemed to recalibrate around him—by the careful way light refused to linger on his face.
Master Halveth of House Lysander.
The Veiled Eye rarely came in person.
They sent fragments. Notes. Glances.
When they came themselves, it meant the blade was already inside.
Halveth bowed—not deeply, not casually. Exactly as required.
"Lord Lucien," he said.
Lucien turned then, studying him. Halveth's robes were unmarked by color or sigil, but the cut was unmistakable. Lysander favored clothing that erased the body, that made the person wearing it seem less real.
"You weren't announced," Lucien said.
Halveth smiled faintly. "We seldom are."
Lucien gestured to the chair opposite him.
Halveth did not sit.
The river pressed closer.
"Say it," Lucien said. "Whatever it is, say it before the silence becomes unbearable."
Halveth regarded him for a long moment. There was no pity in his gaze. Only calculation—precise and unsettling.
"House Lysander," he said at last, "has encountered a discrepancy."
Lucien waited.
"Not in a ledger," Halveth continued. "Not in trade records or oaths. Those are easy to correct."
Lucien's fingers tightened around the edge of the table.
"This discrepancy," Halveth said softly, "persists across memory."
Lucien felt cold bloom in his chest.
"You mean my family," he said.
Halveth inclined his head.
"Specifically," he said, "your mother."
The word struck deeper than Lucien expected. It should not have surprised him. Lysander always went for the dead first. The living could still defend themselves.
"She died," Lucien said. "That much is recorded."
"Yes," Halveth agreed. "But the manner of her death is… inconsistent."
Lucien stood.
The chair scraped faintly against stone.
"Inconsistent with what?" he asked.
"With what the river remembers."
The words hung between them.
Lucien froze.
Halveth watched him closely now.
The river surged—not audibly, but insistently, a pressure beneath the floor that made Lucien's teeth ache.
"You shouldn't say that," Lucien said.
Halveth's smile deepened by a fraction.
"House Lysander," he said, "does not say things without reason."
He reached into his sleeve and withdrew a narrow packet of folded parchment bound with black thread. He placed it on the table but did not release it immediately.
"These are fragments," he said. "Witness statements that were never archived. Correspondence that was sealed under Seravain authority. Timelines that do not align."
Lucien stared at the packet.
"How did you get those?" he asked.
Halveth loosened his grip but did not let go.
"That," he said, "is not the question that matters."
Lucien felt suddenly very young.
"Then what is?"
Halveth released the packet.
"The question," he said, "is how many people already know."
Lucien's breath came shallow.
"You're not accusing us," Lucien said. "You're inviting others to accuse us."
Halveth nodded, as though pleased.
"House Lysander has opened an inquiry," he said. "Quietly. Respectfully."
Lucien laughed once.
"There's no such thing."
"Correct," Halveth said. "There is only timing."
Lucien looked away, toward the narrow window. Beyond it, the sky was overcast. The stars he had been tracing were gone.
"What happens if my father refuses you access?" Lucien asked.
Halveth stepped closer.
Close enough that Lucien could see the faint lines around his eyes—marks left by years of watching others fall.
"Then," Halveth said, "House Drayvane will ask whether Seravain has something to hide."
Lucien swallowed.
"And Caelthorn?" he asked.
Halveth smiled without warmth.
"They will ask whether Seravain should be secured until the matter is resolved."
Lucien felt sick.
"And Lysander?" he asked.
Halveth leaned back.
"We will observe," he said. "And ensure the record reflects what occurs."
The river pressed hard now.
Lucien felt it coiling beneath stone and law, patient and offended.
"This isn't about truth," Lucien said.
"No," Halveth agreed. "Truth is flexible. This is about precedent."
Lucien looked back at him.
"You're seeing if Seravain can still refuse."
Halveth bowed his head.
"Precisely."
Silence stretched.
Finally, Lucien spoke.
"You came to me instead of my father."
Halveth's eyes sharpened.
"Yes."
"Why?"
Halveth hesitated.
Only a fraction of a second.
"Because," he said, "the future listens more closely than the present."
The words chilled Lucien.
Halveth turned toward the door.
"This inquiry will proceed," he said. "With or without Seravain cooperation."
The door opened.
As he stepped through, Halveth paused.
"Tell your father," he added, "that House Lysander has begun asking questions."
Lucien did not respond.
The door closed.
The silence that followed was absolute.
The river did not whisper.
It roared—quietly, furiously—beneath the palace, unheard by anyone else.
Lucien understood now:
This was not an attack meant to destroy the Seravain outright.
It was meant to force them to choose between exposure and war.
And House Lysander had placed the first blade in the hands of a child.