Page 53 of The Panther's Price

He’d come in through the lower crypts, the part of Crimson Hollow even Thalia’s loyalists rarely visited. The tunnels smelled of wet iron and old spell residue. And deeper still—beneath theceremonial sanctum where the rebels praised her name—Lucien had found him.

Eamon.

Cold. Still. Dead. Not recently. Noteven close.

The man who raised Evryn had been left here like a secret, a relic buried in spell-silence and cloaked stasis. A charm over the chamber to keep his scent hidden, to keep the rot from spreading. A lie wrapped in sorcery.

Lucien had knelt beside him, shadows hissing in grief.

He looked peaceful. Like he’d gone protecting her.

And she didn’t even know.

She still believed he was alive, just waiting. Justsomewhere.

That’s why she stayed with Thalia. That’s why she was letting her heart turn cold and her power run wild.

Because of hope.

Lucien left the crypt and didn’t look back.

He didn’t know what would break more—Evryn’s heart or her rage when she realized the truth. But she had to know. And he couldn’t let her find out fromthem.

He waited until the fire rites started. Until her hands were lifted high and the circle of blood-born rebels began to chant her name like prophecy.

Then he moved.

Shadows and blades. No sound. No pause.

Through the back of the temple platform, through the narrow servant corridor that twisted behind the altar. He found her there, momentarily alone, her breath visible in the sacred chill, eyes closed as if steadying herself before the final part of the ritual.

She didn’t see him coming.

Not until his hand was on her wrist.

Not until she turned and her shadows reared like beasts.

“Lucien?” Her voice cracked like frost. Then fire. “What the hell are you?—”

“We need to go,” he growled. “Now.”

She yanked back, summoning power. “You don’t get toshow up?—”

He caught her hand again, more force than finesse, and pinned her against the carved wall.

“You want to hit me? Do it later. Right now, I’m getting you out of here.”

“Why?!” she snapped, writhing, shoving. “So you can betray meagain?”

He leaned in close, voice a razor. “Because he’s gone.”

She froze.

Her whole body. Her breath.

“What?”

Lucien’s chest heaved. “Eamon. He’s dead.”

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