Eon sat on the edge of his bed long after the others had gone to rest, staring at his open hands. The residual pull from the lure still lingered under his skin like a faint bruise, not painful but impossible to ignore. It had felt so close to what his grandfather must have known—pure harmony, no weight, no demands—yet the moment he stepped toward it, everything he actually cared about started to fade.
He flexed his fingers once. The golden threads answered, quiet and steady this time. No surge. No hunger. Just presence.
A soft knock came at the door. Aurora stepped in without waiting for an answer, carrying a small tray with warm tea. Adam followed a moment later, closing the door behind them. They didn't crowd him. They simply sat—Aurora on the edge of the bed, Adam leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.
"You held," Aurora said, setting the tray down. "That's what matters."
