His fingers were cold as they brushed against my skin, lifting the silver metal from my chest.

He turned the locket over, his thumb tracing the engraved rose on the front.

“Where did you get this?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

His tone was no longer commanding; it was filled with a strange, quiet disbelief.

“It was my mother’s,” I said.

“She left it to me when she passed away.”

Lucian compared the locket in his hand to the one worn by the girl in the photograph.

“This is Elena’s locket,” he said.

“It was a custom piece, commissioned by my father. There was only one made.”

I shook my head, a cold knot forming in my stomach.

“That is impossible,” I said. “My mother wore this for as long as I can remember.”

“Who was your mother, Mara?”

The intensity in his dark eyes was overwhelming, demanding an answer I did not have.

“She was just a normal woman,” I said, my voice shaking. “She worked as a seamstress in the lower district. She never spoke about her past.”