Page 78 of The Devil's Canvas

And I have no idea what I’m supposed to say.

"Every Weaver before me carried the name Lysandra." Her voice is steady, unshaken. "Every daughter. Every generation. We have always shaped the Loom, guided the threads. Until now."

The room holds its breath.

I feel the shift in the air—not just from her words, but from the stillness of the Council, from the way my mother and father are no longer just listening, but understanding.

I grit my teeth, forcing myself to keep my voice level. "You knew?" The edge in my tone is sharp, but Calliope doesn’t flinch.

"I learned at sixteen, just as Ophelia should have." Her expression doesn’t change. "But I never got the chance to tell her. I never got the chance to prepare her."

My grip tightens. "Because someone made sure you didn’t."

A beat.

Calliope doesn’t look away. "Because he made sure I didn’t."

I study her carefully. The way she says it—he—it lands like a stone in my gut.

"You know who killed you." My voice is measured, cold. "You know who took the gift from you."

Calliope meets my eyes.

And for the first time, I see Ophelia in her.

The same cutting clarity. The same unwavering resolve.

"Yes."

My stomach twists.

"It was Cassius." The words hit like a blade to the ribs.

A sharp inhale—Evander. A flicker of something unreadable—Liora.

But I don’t move. I don’t breathe. Because this isn’t possible.

Calliope tilts her head slightly, studying me the way one might examine a fraying thread. "You didn’t know," she realizes, voice softer now. "You thought you were making a deal with a desperate man."

I force myself to blink. To exhale. To think.

"How?" The question is sharp, low, dangerous.

Calliope doesn’t hesitate.

"Poison." Quiet. Absolute. "Slow. Painless, at first. It wasn’t meant to be cruel—it was meant to be clean. Efficient. A cup of wine, laced with something ancient, something meant to sever my ties to the Loom before death could pass it on."

She pauses, gaze distant. "I felt it the moment it touched my lips. Not the pain—the loss. Like something had been ripped from my soul before my body ever failed."

She shakes her head once. "By the time I collapsed, he was already gone. He didn’t even stay to watch me die."

Something inside me snaps. My fists curl, my teeth clench, something hot and venomous climbing up my throat.

"That son of a bitch—he used me." The words are a growl, sharp and dangerous. "He knew I would take the deal if I thought I was relieving a burden. That’s why he framed it that way. He never meant to free her—he meant to strip her of everything."

Owen drags a hand down his face. "Jesus. So let me get this straight—when you made the deal, Julian, you unknowingly handed the hands of fate to Melanie instead of Ophelia."

The realization rolls through the room like an unspoken curse.

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