Crystal-clear. Framed by strands of ink-black hair that curled slightly at the ends. Like still water over a deep, endless well.
And just beneath the image, the broadcaster's magic traced his name into the lower edge of the illusion.
Lucavion Thorne.
Her breath caught—not in surprise, not quite—but in something deeper. Slower. As if her body had registered the recognition before her mind caught up.
At first… she didn't recognize him.
Time had carved new lines, refined the boyishness into edge. He was taller now. Broader. The smirk he used to wear like a shield was gone, replaced by something far more dangerous: stillness. Precision.
But the name.
The name made it real.
A name etched in her memory like a blade to the ribs.
Lucavion.
