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JACE

Jace had just stepped out of his office when he saw it.

A basket.

Tucked in the shadow of the hall just outside his door. Still warm. Still fragrant with cinnamon and sugar and something heartbreakingly soft.

He stared at it. No one said a word. But everythingscreamed.

He knew instantly who it belonged to.

Knew what she must’ve heard.

Knew what it must’ve sounded like:duty over desire.

It wasn’t what he meant. Gods, it wasn’t even close.

He’d been trying to explain that claiming her had to mean more than instinct. That choosing her had to be anhonor—not a reaction.

But he’d said it all wrong. And she was gone.

“Logan,” he barked, already turning.

Logan appeared from the adjacent hallway, brows raised. “Yeah?”

“Lyra was here. She heard me. She left.”

Logan’s face shifted. “How long ago?”

“I don’t know,” Jace snapped. “Twenty minutes? An hour? I didn’tsmellher over the damn conference incense?—”

He didn’t finish.

He was already moving.

Her loft was empty.

The lock untouched. Ward lines undisturbed.

But the air was stale.

He walked through it like a ghost, eyes snagging on little things he hadn’t let himself notice before—her cloak tossed over the chair, the worn spine of a magical theory book left open on the couch, a teacup half full on the counter.

Home.

Except she wasn’t there. And that made it a battlefield.

He pressed two fingers to the back of the doorframe and let the bond spark. Let it hum.

For the first time, he didn’t shut it out. Didn’t bury it beneath pride or fear or stupid damned tradition.

Hefelther.

Felt the thread that tethered them pulse—distant, muffled, wrong.

Panic slid in, slow and cold. He left without a word.