ht of the moment press in. This was not a fracture yet. Not truly.
But it was close.
Devyn leaned toward her, his voice barely above a whisper. "This is where lines start to form."
She nodded slowly. "And where choices start to matter."
They did not speak aloud.
That night, back in her room, Genevieve sat by the window long after the lanterns dimmed. The token rested in her palm, warm now, responsive.
Agragore was not silent.
It was waiting.
And Genevieve knew, with a clarity that settled deep in her bones, that whatever came next would not ask her how powerful she was.
It would ask her where she stood.
And whether she would bend—or break—when the lines finally met.