The words landed like stone in still water—no ripple, no echo. Just weight.
"I am Damien."
Erin Valeheart did not react immediately. Her gaze remained locked, unwavering. The silence that followed was not one of doubt, but of calculation.
'I have heard better lies,' she thought. 'And worse truths.'
Normally, the threads would guide her. Every syllable spoken by a soul revealed some trace—of intent, of alignment, of truth. It was like hearing sound in color, like watching light split through crystal. But with him, there was nothing.
Just the silence of unreadable depth.
She extended her perception further—not just with Mystery, but with instinct honed over a century. The tilt of the shoulders, the dilation of the pupils, the twitch of restrained breath. The body never lied, even when the mouth did.
And yet...
'No tension in the neck. Pulse steady. Eyes locked, but not evasive. No shifting of weight that indicates deception.'
