Lucian found him on the east terrace. Alone. Which was becoming a pattern that worried him more than the dark veins.
Tristan was leaning against the stone balustrade, staring at nothing, the wind pulling at his shirt. He looked thinner. Harder in the wrong places. The fated tie to Vesper was eating him from the inside out, and the man standing on that terrace was a stripped-down version of the one Lucian had grown up beside. Same frame. Same jaw. Less life behind the eyes.
Silence wasn't protecting anyone anymore. It was just a coffin Lucian had been building around himself, and he was running out of air.
"I need to tell you something." He kept his voice steady, which cost him more than Tristan would ever know. "And you're going to hate me for it."
Tristan turned his head. "That's a hell of an opener."
"It's a hell of a thing."
Tristan searched his face. Whatever he found there made the half-smile die on arrival.
