In the dimly lit basement of the D’Argon mansion, the scent of old stone and steel lingered in the air. Lucien leaned against the edge of the long wooden table, arms crossed, eyes narrowed in thought. Damon stood across from him, fiddling with a silver ring on his finger, ready to take his leave.

“I’ll go check on the patrol lines,” Damon muttered, half-turning toward the stairs.

Lucien raised a brow, unconvinced. “You’ve been oddly quiet today.”

Damon stopped mid-step, letting out a small sigh. “Actually… that reminds me.”

Lucien straightened, sensing the shift in tone.

“Talia told me something last night,” Damon continued, turning back toward him. “She said...