The weight of Stephen's name still hung in the air like something I couldn't breathe past.
Draven didn't sit right away.
He stood near the table instead, the imperial file still in his hand—Stephen's confession sealed inside it like a warning I hadn't fully recovered from. The firelight moved across his face in slow, sharp strokes, carving out that familiar calm expression he always wore when something was far more dangerous than it appeared.
"I made him speak," Draven said at last. His voice was even. Controlled. Almost calm enough to be mistaken for casual conversation. "Stephen didn't state his full purpose until I tortured him."
The words hit too cleanly.
Too easily.
Like they belonged in his world more than mine.
My body went still before I could stop it. Just a slight tightening in my shoulders, a subtle pause in my breath—but I knew Draven saw it. He always saw it.
I forced my voice out quickly, before my thoughts could spiral.
