The office felt colder now — a suffocating silence settling in the corners like a dark fog.
The echo of Genevieve's anger still clung to the walls, the rawness of her words leaving an unseen wound across Alaric's chest.
He closed his eyes briefly, dragging a hand down his face before sinking into his chair. The leather creaked beneath him, a sound so small yet deafening in the heavy quiet.
His chest felt like stone — heavy, immovable.
What could he do?
What would he do?
The answer was simple: nothing.
There was no saving Genevieve from the fate set before her. No clever scheme or whispered threat that would unravel the delicate threads of peace between Wyfn-Garde and Tackeros.
She had a duty, just as he did — a duty neither of them could escape.
And yet, the ache in his ribs wasn't only for Genevieve.
It was for himself.
