Caspian couldn't move. His body remained rigid, the blade in his hand suspended mid-air—forgotten. His breath stalled, chest tight, every heartbeat echoing like a tolling bell in the silence. His eyes, once fierce and unrelenting, now dropped to the child who stood barely a dozen paces away.
And the child stared back.
With eyes that held no warmth. No soul. Just void.
Lifeless, fathomless black—like still water that had drowned everything beneath it.
A muscle twitched near Caspian's temple, right below the streak of silver in his hair. He swallowed hard, but the knot in his throat only grew tighter. He didn't need confirmation—he could feel it in the air, see it in the faint trail of mana weaving around the boy like mist: this was the child Yami had taken.
But worse than that… was the face. The boy's face—delicate, sharp, hauntingly familiar.
Those eye shape. That nose. The soft curve of those lips.
Not his of course. Every feature was hers.
The Queen.
