"Mireille."
The name hit Lucien like a physical blow, his composed fury cracking for just a moment into something raw.
"What do you know about Mireille," he demanded.
Vale's grip on Alaric's shoulder tightened, and the older man's face had gone pale, terror and something else, guilt perhaps, warring behind his eyes.
"Tell him," Vale said quietly, addressing Alaric now. "Tell your son what really happened to your niece."
"Don't," Alaric whispered, his voice hoarse. "Please."
"Tell him," Vale repeated, his tone hardening, "or I finish this conversation without your input at all."
Alaric's eyes closed briefly, decades of buried guilt finally cracking open under the weight of a blade he couldn't see but clearly understood.
"Mireille didn't die in a border skirmish," he said, his voice
