The silence in the study wasn't just a lack of sound; it was a physical weight, a pressurized chamber where the air had been sucked out, leaving only the metallic tang of old ink and the heavy, winter-chill scent of Dracarus. I had let the bone dagger slip, the hilt hitting the rug with a muffled thud that felt like the closing of a chapter. I was tired, my internal system was failing, and the "Kill Project" knowledge was looping in my brain like a corrupted file I couldn't delete.
I expected him to dismiss me. I expected him to sneer and send me back to my gilded cage of a dorm. But Dracarus didn't move. He stood there, his long, pale fingers still resting on the leather cover of the ledger. . . the evidence of my past life. . . and his gaze turned into something sharper, colder.
