The garden waited.
Neither of them moved. Leo stood with Tempest in his hand, his hair falling across his forehead, his eyes fixed on his sister with an intensity that made the air around them feel heavier.
Sylvia stood across from him with her own blade gleaming in the afternoon light, her black hair swaying slightly in the breeze, her expression caught somewhere between fury and guilt.
Before either of them could make a move, a voice cut through the tension like a blade through silk.
"That is enough."
Leo turned his head.
His father was walking toward them, his hair disheveled, and his eyes calm but firm.
His mother was behind him, her emerald eyes wet with tears she was trying to hide, her hand pressed against her chest like she was trying to hold her heart in place. They had been watching from the bench the entire time—listening to every word, hearing every accusation, every painful confession that Leo had never spoken aloud before.
