"Thousands have already died," I hear myself say. My voice sounds strange. Distant. Like it belongs to someone else. "Because of him."
"I know." Tears stream down Solene's face. "I know, and I'm sorry, and I will never forgive him for what he's done. But please—" Her voice breaks. "Please don't make me watch you kill him. He's still my father. Whatever else he is, he's still?—"
"He's a monster." Kaan's voice is flat. Absolute. "He murdered my son. He tortured my wife with grief and guilt for months while she blamed herself for his crime. He deserves far worse than death."
"I know," Solene whispers. "I know he does. But I'm begging you—not like this. Not here. Please."
I watch them face each other—my husband and my sister, light and shadow, rage and desperate pleading. The pavilion has gone silent except for Father's ragged breathing and the distant sounds of chaos outside.
I should say something. Should intervene. Should stop this before it goes any further.
But all I can think about is my baby.
My baby, who never got to take a first breath. Who never got to open their eyes and see the world. Who died in blood and pain because my father decided their existence was inconvenient.
"He killed my child." The words come out broken. Shattered. "He killed my baby and let me believe it was my fault."
Kaan's head turns toward me. His eyes are still black with rage, his shadows still writhing with hunger for violence, but something in his expression softens when he sees my face.
"I know,sevgilim." His voice is gentle now. Gentle and devastated. "I know."
"I want him dead." I say. "I want him to suffer the way I've suffered. I want to tear him apart with my bare hands and watch the light leave his eyes."
"So do I," Kaan says quietly.
"But—" My voice breaks. I force myself to continue. "But Solene's right. If we kill him here, like this, it becomes about politics again. About war and power and who controls what. And I don't want his death to be about any of that."
I step forward, pushing past Solene, until I'm standing directly over my father's crumpled form.
He looks up at me with bloodshot eyes. His throat is mottled purple and black where Kaan's shadows bruised him. Blood leaks from his nose, his mouth, the corners of his eyes.
He looks pathetic. Small. Nothing like the powerful lord who controlled my entire life.
"I want you to know something," I say, and my voice is steady now. Cold and clear as winter ice. "I want you to understand exactly what you've done."
I crouch down until our faces are level.
"You didn't save me," I tell him. "You didn't protect me. You destroyed me. You murdered the child I loved more than my own life, and you let me believe it was my fault. Formonths, Father. For months, I woke up every morning hating myself for failing to protect my baby. I tore myself apart with guilt. I pushed away everyone who tried to help me. I nearly destroyed my marriage because I couldn't bear to look at Kaan without being reminded of what we'd lost."
My voice drops to a whisper.
"And the whole time, it was you."
Father opens his mouth. Closes it. For the first time in my life, he has nothing to say.
"I'm not going to kill you," I continue. "Not because you deserve to live. Not because I've forgiven you. But because I wantyou to spend every remaining day of your miserable existence knowing the truth."
I stand.
"You haven't saved the Light Court. You've doomed it. When word gets out about what you've done, and it will get out, I'll make sure of it, you'll lose everything. Your position. Your power. Your precious Council's protection. Every ally you've ever had will abandon you, because no one will trust a man who murders his own grandchild."
Father's face goes gray.
"You wanted to control the prophecy," I say. "You wanted to decide who lived and who died, which realm rose and which fell. But you forgot something important, Father."
I let my light magic rise around me, brighter than it's ever been.
"The prophecy wasn't about my child. It was aboutme. And you've just given me every reason in the world to burn your precious Light Court to the ground."
