I stop ten paces behind him.
He doesn’t turn. Of course he doesn’t. He trusts his soldiers. He trusts the gold.
His hands lift higher, and another spear of luminth forms between them. He hurls it, and it becomes a streak of sun that punches through the right of Kaelen’s shield. It flickers, as if it’s weakening before it reforms.
But it’s smaller than it was before.
My stomach twists.
I could strike him now. I could surge forward and drive luminth through his spine exactly the way he taught me to, the way he would expect from an enemy. I could end him before he even sees me.
But that’s what he would do.
“Father,” I say. He doesn’t respond, his hands focused on shaping another lethal, pointed spear. Of course he doesn’t.
“Commander Vaelion.”
The luminth spear between his palms flickers, destabilizes, then collapses into sparks that dissolve into air. When he turns, his face is wreathed in anger. “What is it?”
His eyes catch the gold armor first. Perhaps I made a mistake in putting it on, because his brow creases. “Speak, soldier.”
When I say nothing, his head tilts. “Remove your helm.”
I don’t move.
His eyes narrow at my silent refusal. The air around his hands brightens again, luminth gathering in a ball.
“Remove it,” he repeats. Softer, this time, as if he can’t believe I’d force him to say it twice.
I lift my hands to the helm and unseal it. The cold air hits my face like a slap when I pull it free. Wind tears at my hair immediately, whipping around my cheeks, tangling with damp strands of sweat.
My father’s gaze locks onto my face. His mouth parts, just slightly. But it’s more expression than I’ve ever seen him wear before. “Lyra.”
He takes a step, his eyes traveling over me once more. “What have you done?”
Derision. Disappointment. He falls into it so easily.
My voice remains low. Steady. “I failed.”
His jaw tightens. “So I see. I’d thought you dead, truthfully. It would have been easier. Is this a request to return, or a betrayal?”
“Neither,” I say, and the anger in my voice surprises me with its steadiness. “This is…justice.”
I taste the word on my tongue. “This needs to end. They don’t want a war with Solvandyr. There can bepeace.”
His eyes flick over my armor once more, before they tighten. “You're wearing my crest,” he says tightly. “You stand among my soldiers. And yet you speak to me like a Darkwielder.”
“I speak like your daughter.” I rasp the words before I can stop myself. The word hangs between us, silent and forbidden.
“You were never my daughter.” He enunciates every word as he steps toward me. “You were a means to an end, Lyra. Convenient. Even amusing at times. But nothing more.”
A sound escapes me. Half laugh, half sob. I expected nothing less, but the wound still deepens.
“You were born with some talent,” he says, as if listing facts on a ledger. “Strong. Bright. Mine by blood. The High Solar foresaw the end of this war. They said you would end it. I did what duty required, even though I doubted your ability.”
“Duty,” I echo.
His gaze hardens. “And I was right. You failed. Lightbringer blood is on your hands.”
