Sylva’s lips curled. “She’s interested.”
“That settles it then,” Basil muttered.
“How does that settle anything?” Lucy demanded.
“I can sense lies,” Sylva said. His voice stayed neutral, almost careful—like he was choosing each word with restraint instead of pride. Lucy had expected smugness. She got consideration instead, and it unsettled her. “More accurately—hear them.”
Lucy stopped short. Slowly, deliberately, she turned to stare at him.
“You mean to tell me,” she said carefully, “that I have been emotionally naked this entire time?”
Sylva tilted his head. “Yes.”
“How intriguing,” the Baroness said between gasps. “How does it work?”
“My ears can hear a distortion when someone lies,” Sylva explained. “It’s like a wrong note in a song. Beastkin often develop abilities tied to survival. Hearing lies keeps you alive.”
Lucy stared at his ears in horror. “Can we return him to sender?”
“No,” Basil said flatly.
Lucy crossed her arms dramatically. “Fine. Then I refuse to speak ever again.”
Sylva’s gaze flicked to her mouth and away again immediately.
“Blessed silence,” Basil grumbled.
She gasped. “I can still hear, you know!”
“I was counting on it.”
Before Lucy could deliver a monologue about betrayal and the fragile nature of trust, Sylva’s ears twitched.
“You already lied again.”
“I didn’t even say anything!”
“You said you wouldn’t speak.” His tail swished smugly. “Lie.”
Lucy stomped the ground. “I hope a squirrel drops a pinecone on you.”
“That is oddly specific,” the Baroness whispered, still recovering from oxygen deprivation.
They continued down the merchant road, carts and caravans rumbling past. Sylva stayed close enough to notice changes in the crowd and far enough not to touch her. Lucy had spent her life learning the difference between hovering and guarding. This was neither.
Refugees, traders, wandering mercs—everyone seemed to be heading in or out of Stonehaven. It was bustling enough that Lucy could almost pretend Basil’s personal storyline wasn’t unraveling beside her in real time.
Stonehaven was busy—but not relaxed.
Lucy noticed the way people glanced at Basil and then quickly looked away. Not recognition exactly. More like instinct. Thekind people developed when they lived under too many guild shadows.
“So,” Lucy said, hands clasped behind her back, trying to look casual despite radiating curiosity like a dying star, “if Sylva isn’t technically your step-son, what is he?”
Basil exhaled, as if this were the worst question she had ever asked. “A complication.”
“A complication with ears,” Sylva added.
“And sharp teeth,” Lucy said. “And the kind of overly dramatic eyeliner nature gives you.”
