Daeron regarded Seraphielle for a long moment, the corner of his mouth lifting slowly—almost lazily—as if he were amused by a private joke.
"You give me far too much credit," he said at last.
He reached for the goblet, swirling the wine with a casual flick of his wrist before taking a measured sip. His gaze never left her.
"I don't want Aurelia dead."
The words hung between them.
Seraphielle studied him closely, clearly weighing whether he was lying or merely delusional.
"That confidence," she replied calmly, "is exactly why the world burns in my vision."
Daeron's fingers drummed once against the table. Tap. Tap. Tap. A habit he'd picked up long ago, whenever his mind was working faster than he cared to admit.
"If I wanted her dead," Daeron continued coolly, "she would already be buried. I don't make noise when I kill. I don't leave trails. I don't wait for chaos to do my work for me, I just strike."
