Rowen didn't answer immediately.
He just stared at Lucavion—unmoving, unreadable. That same noble stillness, the kind that masks storms behind steel-gray eyes and centuries of ritual. The kind that says: I won't be the first to blink.
But the question hung there, caught between the three of them like a wire strung taut.
Why didn't you act?
Varen hadn't asked with judgment. That was the part that made it sting. There was no accusation in his tone, only clarity. The kind of question that came from someone who had seen it, logged it, and couldn't leave it alone.
Lucavion waited.
He watched Rowen, the way a gambler watches the next card drawn—not impatient, not eager. Just ready.
And Rowen?
He breathed in slowly, then exhaled as though weighing the cost of truth against its necessity.
His voice, when it came, was low. Stripped of pageantry.
"…Because she was there."
Lucavion's fingers drummed once against the rim of his glass.
Just once.
Then stilled.
