"And you…" he said, the space between each word stretched just enough to unsettle.
The pause lingered. Too long.
Then—
"What the hell are you?"
Not who.
What.
The question cracked like a whip through the suspended quiet.
Lucavion didn't react at first.
His weight shifted just slightly on his heels, a motion more reflex than posture. The others felt it—Elayne's eyes narrowed, Caeden's brow furrowed. Mireilla, for once, said nothing. Even Toven didn't try to fill the silence.
Lucavion's voice came low, calm, nearly amused.
"Does that line work on all your guests?"
The man's smile didn't widen. It deepened. Like a fissure splitting along his cheekbones—something not entirely meant for faces.
"No," he said softly.
The man didn't blink. Didn't breathe.
Just stared.
One eye cloudy, the other glinting too sharply for this world.
His head tilted, birdlike, as if Lucavion were a crack in glass he was trying to read through.
