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I ignore it.
I let it tear.
I don’t acknowledge him at first. Instead, I keep walking, eyes fixed ahead, pace measured, steady, calm, a lie. The others move behind us, voices a low murmur, the scrape of boots against stone and dirt a steady rhythm beneath them. The night is too quiet. Even the air feels expectant, thick with something unspoken, but I refuse to break.
Not for her. Not for him. Not for anyone.
But Orin has never been one to let things go.
"Why are you so cruel to her?"
The words come softly. Almost idle. As if this is a casual conversation between old friends. But Orin’s never wasted words, and he’s never been careless with them. Which means this is deliberate. A knife slipped between my ribs. A test.
I exhale through my nose. Keep my gaze forward. Don’t take the bait.
"You mistake cruelty for honesty." My voice is even, devoid of emotion. Controlled. Always controlled.
Orin hums, a thoughtful sound, and then, "Do I?"
The flicker of irritation is immediate, curling hot in my gut. He’s waiting for something, watching me with that ancient patience of his, like he already knows the answer and is merely giving me the courtesy of saying it out loud.
I keep walking.
I don’t let the words form.
But Orin is relentless in his quiet way, his voice nothing more than a low murmur between us. "You’ve lied before, Lucien, but never to yourself. And yet, here you are, speaking the same lie over and over again. To her. To us. To yourself." A pause. "I wonder if you repeat it enough, you think you’ll make it true."
I stop walking.
The silence that follows is absolute.
The others don’t notice, we’re just far enough ahead that our conversation hasn’t drawn attention. But Orin watches me closely, his gaze unreadable, hands clasped behind his back like he’s contemplating philosophy instead of peeling back every carefully constructed layer of my resolve.
I tilt my head, let my lips curl into something almost amused, and murmur, “You assume I care enough to lie.”
Orin doesn’t smile, doesn’t frown, he just watches. Then, after a beat, he simply says, “I assume you care too much to admit the truth.”
Something sharp and vicious uncoils in my chest.
Because it’s too close to the way I feel her pull even when I walk away. Too close to the way my power, my Dominion, means nothing against her.
"You know," he muses, voice calm, measured, "I’ve seen you turn a battlefield to ash without hesitation. I’ve seen you break men with a word, make them kneel without lifting a hand. And yet, one girl looks at you, and you unravel."
My jaw tightens. "Careful, Orin."
He smiles, the way he always does, like he’s looking at something fragile and devastating all at once. "It’s already too late, Lucien. You just haven’t admitted it yet."
I don’t look at him, don’t let him see the way his words land too close to the truth. Instead, I turn my head just enough to murmur, low and cold, "If you want to lecture someone, find another target. She means nothing to me."
Orin studies me for a long moment, eyes ancient in their patience, in their understanding. Then he does something infuriating.
He laughs. A quiet, knowing sound. The kind that slips under the skin and settles like an unbearable weight. And then he walks ahead, leaving me standing in the wreckage of my denial.