Lastor began to sweat. Of all people, he knew the past best, perhaps too well. And he had withheld its full truth not out of malice, but fear. Fear that the same mistakes might be repeated. He had hoped that by burying the truth, it might die quietly with time.
But lies, he realized, always have an expiration date. And no matter how many more he piled on, Arabella wouldn't be convinced. She was seeing through him now.
"Who was it that tricked Circe? Answer me, Lastor!" Arabella's voice rang with unexpected firmness. She could tell he was still searching for another convenient half-truth.
People often claimed lies were protection. But to Arabella, that was just the coward's excuse. Lies dressed up in prettier names still festered, they became even bigger, even more impossible to fix. They still hurt. They still broke and perhaps broke even worse than before.
"Rafael," Lastor finally muttered, barely above a whisper. "How much do you already know… Princess?"
