Calla’s POV
For the first time since Zurich, I was trembling, not from the bullet wound, not even from fear, but from the weight of everything I now held.
The journal.
The ring box.
The name.
Elias Everhart.
I sat in the back of the unmarked car, speeding through Oslo’s narrow streets, cradling Tobias’s journal like a holy relic. Cassian sat beside me, shirt stained with blood—not all of it his, but enough that it made me ache to look at him. I had bandages wrapped around my upper arm, hastily applied by the Norwegian field medic. Still, the burn of the graze was nothing compared to what was searing beneath my skin.
“Did you know?” I asked softly, not looking at him.
Cassian didn’t answer right away. The city lights flickered over his features like a strobe, flashing guilt, tension
