Hearing my son’s name again—it was like a dagger to the chest. Images of the cave, the smell of blood, the frantic prayers—I saw it all again.
I laughed.
It was sharp. Empty. Laced with venom.
Ronan’s brows pulled together. “That’s not what I needed to hear, Luna.”
Luna.
As if that word still held weight.
“You’re searching for Elior?” I said quietly, every word soaked in acid.
He frowned. “Didn’t you hear me? What’s wrong with you?” He reached for my arm, but I stepped away.
His confusion was instant.
Then realization swept over him.
“You’re upset because I didn’t come,” he said gently. “Please—I can explain. I’m here now because—”
I cut him off. “Did you receive the letter?”
His forehead creased. “Letter?”
“Elior’s funeral,” I said coldly.
Silence fell between us.
The color drained from his face. His mouth opened slightly, but no sound came.
You didn’t come.
I pushed the words past the lump in my throat. “You weren’t there when he needed you. You weren’t there when I was losing him. You weren’t even there when we laid him to rest.”
My voice trembled, but I wouldn’t fall apart—not in front of him. He didn’t get to see the wreckage.