Catherine's POV
He smiled or I imagined he did. His voice carried warmth like a gift wrapped in velvet. "Tell me what you felt when you saw the carving."
My stomach tightened despite myself.
I had made the mistake of reacting once. Just once. That had been enough.
"I felt nothing," I said flatly.
A soft chuckle. "That's not true."
I hated that he never raised his voice. Never punished me directly. Everything here was suggestion, implication, invitation.
"It was just stone," I continued. "Symbols carved by hands that are long dead."
"Liar," he said kindly. "It spoke to you."
I swallowed.
I could still see it, the memory burned behind my eyes whether I wanted it or not. Three crescents carved deep enough to scar the mountain itself. One whole. One fractured. One darkened almost to black.
Choose.
The word hadn't been carved. It had been pressed into the stone, as if the mountain had decided to speak.
"It was meant for her," I said. "Not me."
