He lifts a hand carefully, like he’s reaching for glass. “Your son,” he says softly. “He’s real.”
I nod, tears forming behind my lids. “Yes.” My voice is smaller than I am.
Vex’s fingers stretch, wiggling. He hiccups. The spell breaks.
Someone coughs. A vendor yells. Markets roar back.
Takhiss blinks at us. His arm goes slack. He takes a half step back, then forward, then stops again. I don’t know what he is—warrior, father, shadow. His face trembles.
He whispers, “I—I would’ve died to see you safe.”
My throat closes. I taste sweat, oil, hope. I blink it back. “You came for us.”
He nods once. So slow it’s like an earthquake.
“Dad!” I shout before I can stop it.
Dad rounds the row of cabs, wiping grease off his arms. When he sees Takhiss, he freezes. Then he squares his shoulders, steps forward.
“Who’s this?” he demands, voice low and dangerous.
Takhiss doesn’t flinch. He straightens, lowers his eyes respectfully but not submissively. “Dennis Corleone,” he says. “I—I am Takhiss. Father to your grandson.”
Dad’s face contorts—rage, disbelief, grief, all mixing into one harsh expression. Vex lets out a soft coo, reaches between us.
Dad’s fists clench. “Get your hands off my daughter.”
Takhiss flinches inward but doesn’t step away. “I came back to be with her. With him.”
Dad’s eyes flick to Vex, then at me, then back to Takhiss. He looks like he’s made of years and fights.
I step forward. “Dad, don’t.”
Dad snarls something. Takhiss steps closer. I see his fingers flex. A million years of war in one motion. But he stops: he holds himself in.
“Let me stay,” he says. Quiet. Breaking. “Let me protect them.”
Dad’s chest heaves. I see his mind racing — threats, honor, pain. The marketplace noise roars again. The scent of smog and street food is thick.
Takhiss turns his head to me, voice low: “My life is yours. If you’ll have me.”
Tears spill. I walk toward him, arms trembling, and reach. My fingers brush his cheek. He closes his eyes.
The market stalls crash back into reality. A vendor curses. Vex cries out.
But in that moment—amid rust, sweat, heat, and blood—we are something else. Something alive, something real.
Dad stands between us, fists clenched like stone. He doesn’t step back. He doesn’t step forward. He just... watches.
Takhiss and I, two halves that never quite fit—meet under the weight of silence.
And I swallow, heart pounding:He’s here.
CHAPTER 26
TAKHISS
The hallway smells of hot concrete and stale exhaust. I take one step inside the house her father built from rusted cabs and scrap girders. The door doesn’t slam. That’s something. That's a movement. I swallow jagged breaths.
