Draven's posture went rigid, his jaw clenching so hard the muscle beneath his cheek twitched. The heavy silence in the carriage stretched until it felt like a drawn bowstring, ready to snap.
"Yeah. Maybe," Draven said, his voice flat, emotionless, and clipped as he stared fixedly out the tinted window. "We should just keep going home."
I watched him, my heart hammering against my ribs. The contradiction was staring me right in the face—he had claimed earlier he couldn't find his father's diary, yet he had just recited its opening lines verbatim. My mind raced through every interaction we'd had since last night: the wrong emblem on the cloak, his sudden aversion to my touch, his bizarre claims about Malaki and Nathan, and now this.
"Draven," I began softly, leaning slightly closer while keeping a safe distance. "Who is Jonathan?"
He didn't turn his head, but his golden eyes flicked toward me in the glass reflection. "What do you mean?"
