Damian's head snapped up.
Golden eyes locked onto Alexander's face with such sharpness it could've carved through stone. The folder in his hands creaked under the sudden pressure of his grip.
"Say that again," Damian said, his voice razor-thin.
Alexander didn't flinch, though even his breathing slowed. "They were altered. Fabricated. Someone spliced His Grace's likeness onto an older set of images involving Elliot Claymore. It's illusion magic, but done with high detail and accuracy—meant to appear as if they were lovers."
The room dropped several degrees in temperature.
"We have one of the images in the folder." Alexander refused to look Damian in the eyes.
Damian didn't move.
For a long, taut second, the only sound in the room was the whisper of the ether sconces reacting to his aura—dimming low, as if afraid.
He skimmed the report until he reached the picture.
