"Why do you care about Lyra so much, huh?" Casian's voice was low, dangerous—each word sharp enough to draw blood—as he stepped in, nose to nose with Rowan.
The question struck the room like lightning.
Darius shifted, caught between them, uncertain if he should intervene. But Rowan didn't budge. His stance was solid, unwavering—like a wall Casian could throw every storm at, and still, it wouldn't crack.
Casian's jaw clenched as his fists curled at his sides.
He'd noticed it before. The way Rowan looked at her.
It wasn't just concern.
It was reverence. A careful, haunted hope. A man watching something fragile he didn't think the world deserved—something he didn't think he deserved. And the more Rowan looked, the more Casian couldn't unsee it.
Hope.
It was infuriating.
It was a threat.
Rowan met his glare with ice-cold clarity.
"Because someone has to," he said quietly, but it struck like a blow. "And clearly—it's not you."
The silence between them cracked, and then—
