The force of it knocks Louis back off that marble.

An abrupt vanishing of emotion. Louis' presence winnowing down to something flat and colorless, a thin link threading between them. What's left of the bond, the thing Louis had once claimed to have been knitting anew. Stubbornly maintained, even as Louis' eyes open on the balcony.

Waits, one breath, then another, and another, until the knife twist of Claudia passes. The rail is bending under the grip of his palms, white-hot anger, agonizing grief, winding through Louis' body.

A moment where he considers walking out of this hotel room. Giving his answer in person.

It would horrify Daniel.

It would take too long.

There is no sense of proximity, even when Louis' voice returns. Remote. Dispassionate.

Marius De Romanus, who begat Armand. Armand, who begat Daniel Molloy.

Painful, to say this. Drawing the knife from his own belly to carry these words forward. This accusation.

I will not permit you this thing, Armand. Understand I am no longer making a request.