Luke and Cienna's eyes changed first.
The grief did not leave them.
It sharpened.
What had been helpless sorrow a moment earlier drew inward and became something tighter, steadier, and harder to shake loose. They looked at one another, and in that brief exchange, both of them understood the same thing.
Lucien had prepared something.
The light from before had not only restored memory. It had carried intention with it. A quiet instruction left behind by someone who had expected that even death might not be the end of his work.
The name of that skill alone was enough to say everything.
Luke drew in a slow breath.
"We need to bring him back to Lootwell," he said.
His tone was gentle, but there was enough weight in it that no one mistook it for suggestion.
Cienna nodded.
"Whatever he prepared, it should not be disturbed by the wrong place, the wrong eyes, or the wrong handling."
That was enough.
No one argued.
