Damian didn't wait for an invitation. He crossed the study in a handful of strides and set the worn page down on the desk between them, hard enough that the candle flame guttered and nearly went out.
"Read it," he said. "Both of you. Tell me I'm wrong about what it says."
Lyra's eyes dropped to the page, and her stomach turned over as she recognized the same spidery, centuries old handwriting she'd found in the margin of Kael's book only hours earlier. Different text, same warning, the ink faded but the meaning unmistakable.
The false bond serves the true one. Let the son believe the pull is his to claim, that the world may look away from the father long enough for the bloodline to root. When the curse lifts, let no one blame the boy for loving what was never truly his to lose.
Lyra re
