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Then the larger archive request.

Restriction.

Denied access.

Credential suspension.

Lateral attempts through three separate administrative channels.

Then nothing.

Anik’s eyes tracked line by line. The subtle tension in his jaw eased, replaced by something heavier, more inward. His thumb brushed slowly across the screen where the royal credential was listed, a gesture more intimate than analytical. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost detached. “When did this stop?” he asked.

Talia’s finger hovered, then tapped the final timestamp. “Here. Six years ago.”

Anik leaned closer. “He requested access again after suspension.”

“Through three systems,” Talia said. “We found all three attempts.”

His brows furrowed as he followed the sequence. “And after that, nothing.”

“That’s where the trail dies.”

Anik remained focused on the display.

Talia shifted forward slightly. “We couldn’t tell whether he stopped voluntarily or someone stopped him.”

He said nothing.

I watched him.

The Crown Prince. Military commander.

Mate. Father now, judging by the braided child’s cord at his wrist. A male with more to lose than the one I remembered.

For the first time since entering the room, he looked less like authority and more like a brother.

“What happened?” she asked.

Anik’s eyes remained on the archive. “I do not know.”

That surprised me.

He looked at the final timestamp again, then the access restriction, then the royal credential.

Blue ŭre moved slowly beneath his throat.

When he finally looked up, his face had gone cold.

Not confused. Decided.

“This investigation does not leave this room.”

Talia’s shoulders tightened.

Anik saw it immediately.

“Not because I intend to bury it,” he added.