Elara sat frozen, every trace of her usual bright ease gone. Her lips parted but no sound came; her gaze darted helplessly between me and the head of the table, where Draven had gone utterly still—no surprise, no shock, only that cold, absolute stillness that meant he was weighing every thread of risk and consequence.
I held my tone steady, calm, clear—no accusation, no triumph, only the quiet, deliberate question I had laid before them. "I only ask because it matters," I said softly into the heavy quiet. "Everything here is built on what is hidden, and to walk beside you both… I need to know the whole shape of what I stand within."
Elara's breath came short and ragged. She pressed a hand to her throat, as if to hold back words she had never, ever meant to speak aloud. "Seraphina… you… you were not meant to know. Not yet. Not until—" She broke off, glancing sharply at Draven, waiting, desperate for him to step in, to command, to close this crack open before it widened further.
