The paper was gone.
The one in which he had written the message for Isolde.
Lugh had entrusted it to the now-deceased rat. It was supposed to deliver it, before getting attacked by that infernal cat.
What was it called again? Pouncealot?
Regardless, the letter should have still been there. Lugh had searched everywhere. Nothing.
Someone must've picked it up.
But who?
His name had been on that letter.
"Who is Lugh?"
Edrin's voice cut through the silence.
No one answered.
"Didn't you hear me?"
His tone sharpened, aggressive now.
"Who is Lugh?"
He turned toward the boy.
"Who are you?"
The boy looked too good. Inhumanly so. His presence felt... wrong. Chilling in a way that made the air feel thinner, heavier.
His eyes, cold and unnatural, seemed to look through people rather than at them.
Yet he bore the flaxen hair the family held in high regard. And in those sharp, painting-like features, Edrin could see a shadow of his brother.
