Marco had never believed in myths.
He believed in contracts.
In leverage.
In signatures placed precisely where history could not ignore them.
He stood now in the private library of the estate, a leather-bound folder resting in his hands, heavier than paper should ever feel. The windows were tall and narrow, the glass catching the last of the afternoon light. Dust floated in gold streaks between the shelves like fragments of something unfinished.
Elara stood opposite him.
Still.
Waiting.
She had been summoned quietly. No escort this time. No elders. No Alessandro.
Just Marco.
"That look," she said softly, studying his expression. "That's not ritual."
"No," he replied.
"It's worse."
He almost smiled.
"In a way."
She crossed her arms, though the motion tugged faintly at her healing ribs.
"Ouch," she muttered under her breath.
Marco noticed.
"You shouldn't have come down the stairs so quickly."
"I shouldn't be kept in ignorance either."
