CHAPTER 60
The air in the office was suffocating—heavy with the smell of old paper and the faint, metallic edge of Lucian's fraying temper.
He did not speak. He did not look at Marco. He did not need to.
The silence itself was jagged, broken only by the frantic whisper of parchment as Lucian tore through volume after volume, ancient spines cracking beneath his hands.
Books on werewolf ancestry, lunar rites, forbidden bonds—he dragged them from shelves and cast them aside with growing impatience.
Marco stood guard by the heavy oak doors, his expression hidden behind his helm. He watched his King—a being who had stood unshaken before armies and gods alike—pace and search like a man chasing a truth that refused to be caught.
To Marco, it all felt unnecessary.
He had smelled the girl.
There had been no pine, no musk of the wild. No spark of the Moon's favor. No trace of the beasts Lucian now buried himself in texts to understand.
