"Or maybe you were busy with something else."
The implication was clear.
Isolde.
She hadn't seen Lucavion with her.
But Isolde's involvement always meant disaster—and Lucavion had been her pawn once. The tool she used to destroy Elara's life. The weapon she shaped to stage the very moment that led to Elara's exile.
Cedric's expression made it clear he was thinking the same thing.
Lucavion didn't miss the implication.
He met Cedric's stare, eyes flattening—calm shifting into something colder, more distant.
"I train alone," he said simply. "Always have."
Cedric didn't blink. "Training. Right."
Lucavion exhaled through his nose, a soft, annoyed huff. "Whatever."
He adjusted his satchel, dipped his chin to Elara in a faint gesture of acknowledgment—somewhere between polite and guarded.
"Good night," he murmured, tone quieter now.
Then he turned and walked away, steps faster than before, posture too rigid to be called relaxed.
He didn't look back.
