"Of course," he says. "The loss of any child is?—"
"Why do you look guilty?"
The words come out before I can stop them, dragged from my chest by the churning suspicion that's been building since I walked through that pavilion entrance.
Father's composure cracks. Just a hairline fracture, quickly smoothed over, but I saw it. A tightening around his eyes. A subtle shift in his breathing.
"I don't know what you mean," he says, but his voice is too controlled. Too careful.
"Nesilhan." Solene steps forward, her face pale. "What are you suggesting?"
I don't answer her. I can't look away from my father's face.
"The assassin who attacked me," I say slowly, pieces falling into place like shards of broken glass. "The one who wore Banu's face. She knew exactly when to strike. Exactly when I would be vulnerable. Exactly where to find me."
My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my temples. In my throat. In the empty space where my child used to grow.
"Coincidence," Father dismisses. "A lucky guess by?—"
"There are no coincidences with you." My voice rises. "There never have been. Every moment of our lives has been orchestrated, planned, controlled. So tell me, Father—how did an assassin get past every ward in the Shadow Court? How did she know where I slept, when I would be alone, exactly how to strike to kill the child without killing me?"
Silence crashes over the pavilion.
Zoran's face has gone ash-gray. "Nesilhan, what are you?—"
"Ask him." I point at Father, my hand trembling. "Ask him how much he knows. Ask him what he ordered."
"This is absurd," Father says, but there's a new edge to his voice. Something harder. Something cornered. "I would never?—"
"You would." Rage burns through my veins like fire, and I can't stop the words pouring out. "You would and you have. You handed me to the Shadow Court knowing I might die. You ordered me to assassinate my own husband. You kept our sister hidden while we believed her dead."
My voice breaks, but I force myself to continue.
"You've never once put my life above your political ambitions. So why should my child be any different?"
The silence that follows is absolute. Even the guards have stopped breathing.
Father's face cycles through several expressions—outrage, denial, calculation—before settling on something cold. Something final.
"You want the truth?" he asks, and his voice has changed. Harder now. No more pretense of warmth. "Fine. You want to understand why your pregnancy couldn't be allowed to continue? I'll tell you."
My blood turns to ice.
"That child was a mistake," Father says, each word precise as a blade. "A catastrophic error in judgment that threatened everything we've worked to build. The prophecy spoke of a child born of shadow and light—a child with the power to reshape the realms. Do you have any idea what that means?"
"My baby," I whisper. "You're talking about my baby."
"I'm talking about a weapon." Father's eyes are cold. So cold. "A living weapon that would have been raised in darkness, trained by a monster, turned against everything the Light Court stands for. The Council couldn't allow it. I couldn't allow it."
Kaan moves.
Not toward Father—not yet. He steps in front of me, his darkness poolin us both like a protective barrier. When he speaks, his voice is soft. Deadly. The voice of a predator who's just scented blood.
"Choose your next words very carefully," he says. "Because if they're what I think they are, nothing in this realm or any other will stop me from tearing you apart."
Father doesn't flinch. Doesn't back down. If anything, he stands taller.
"The child was an abomination," he says clearly. "A union of shadow and light that should never have existed. The prophecy spoke of reshaping realms—but it never said in whose favor."
