"Don't think this absolves you," she rasped, words gravel-rough from smoke and battle‐screaming. "You're still a killer."
The sentence should have struck like a thrown knife; instead it landed with the brittle sound of broken glass already on the floor. Lyan felt it, accepted it. He did not flinch, only met her gaze and let the truth stand between them.
"I know," he answered, voice low enough the sound slid beneath the echoing arches. He held the acknowledgement a heartbeat longer so she would taste sincerity. "But I don't kill when I have a better choice."
He saw the words brush her anger—not quenching it, only confusing it, like wind tilting a candle flame without blowing it out. Inside, Griselda crackled with proud approval, while Cynthia offered the faintest hum of relief. Lyan exhaled through his nose, easing tension from his neck.
