She stopped. Realized what she had said. Looked at me with an expression that was half-embarrassed, half-apologetic.
"I — I am sorry. I did not mean to — your family's technique—'
"Do not apologize," I said. "It is good to hear that the Durren techniques survive. Even if the family does not."
The moment held. Seraphine's internal voice was a murmur of connection — a shared history, a common ground, the thin thread of the Durren name linking them in a way that transcended rank and circumstance.
'He is Durren. Through his mother. And the shield technique — he recognized it. He knew the principle. He is not just a lord. He is—'
The seed was not the only thing growing.
