And my gut won’t settle.
Every instinct is howling that whatever those two males were, they didn’t just appear by chance.
I head toward the council wing, where my father’s study sits tucked behind a set of carved oak doors. When I push them open, the scent of parchment and cedar hits me — familiar, grounding.
He’s there, hunched over his desk, silver streaking his dark hair. His presence fills the room, steady and commanding, even after all these years.
“Keith,” he says, looking up. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Maybe I have,” I answer, closing the door behind me.
He studies me for a moment, then gestures for me to sit. “Tell me.”
I do. Every detail Stevie gave. Every whisper of unease that’s been gnawing at me since that night. The two unknown males. The strange scent. The
