Aveline glanced sideways at Aelion.
The wind moved through the corridor and stirred his long silver hair, lifting the pale strands around his face like threads of moonlight. For one fleeting moment, he looked less like a dangerous nobleman and more like a lonely boy carrying wounds far too heavy for someone his age.
"You really hate them," she said quietly.
Aelion's expression stilled. Then his lips curved into a smile that never reached his eyes.
"Shouldn't I?" he asked softly.
His jaw tightened as he looked away from her, as though the effort of holding himself together had suddenly become exhausting.
"If I had the power to do it," he continued, his voice lower now, steadier in a way that felt far more frightening, "I would kill every last one of them."
The words did not sound dramatic. That was what made them terrifying. There was no madness in his tone. No shouting. No reckless rage. Only certainty.
