"Cadeon..." Iris starts.
"No." I don't look at her, keeping my eyes on Magnus. "He came here to tell you that you're failing. That your inability to dominate me properly makes you weak. That you should strengthen your will, maintain constant pressure, force me into obedience like she did." My voice is still calm, still controlled, but underneath it I can feel two centuries of rage trying to surface. "But what he's really saying is that kindness is weakness. That seeing me as a person is failure. That the only way to maintain a bond is through cruelty disguised as necessity."
"I never said anything about cruelty," Magnus sniffs.
"You didn't have to." I'm standing directly in front of him now, and I have height, reach, and hundreds of years of combat experience. He knows it. His familiar knows it. "You said tools. Weapons. Objects that don't require consideration beyond maintenance. You said dominance is protection. That control is care." I lean in slightly. "Has your familiar ever told you what it feels like? The constant pressure? The compulsion? The way resisting even slightly feels like being crushed from the inside?"
Talon shifts uncomfortably on Magnus's shoulder.
"Has he?" I press. "Or have you simply assumed that because he obeys, he must be content?"
"That's enough," Magnus snaps, but there's uncertainty in his voice now.
"No. It's not nearly enough." I straighten. "You came here to tell Iris she's failing. But she's the first master in two centuries who's asked me what I want. Who's seen me as something other than a weapon. Who's given me choices instead of commands." My voice softens. "If that's failure, then I'll take failure over success any day."
Magnus looks between us, his expression a mixture of shock and disgust. "You've gone soft. Both of you. Elspeth would be appalled."
"Good," Iris says quietly, and when I glance at her, she's looking at me with something that makes my chest feel too full. "I hope she would be. Because I never want to be what she was."
Magnus adjusts his robes with sharp movements. "You'll regret this. When the bond breaks and he loses control, you'll understand why the old ways exist.” He turns to leave, then pauses. "Your grandmother maintained perfect control for years. Try to make it two months, girl. For your own sake."
Then he's gone, sweeping away with Talon on his shoulder, leaving us standing in the doorway.
For a long moment, neither of us speaks.
"I'm sorry," I say finally. "I shouldn't have..." The anger flows out of me with a sigh.
"Don't." She's looking at me with eyes that are too bright. "Don't apologize. That was... that was incredible."
"I was insubordinate. Defensive. I made things worse."
"You stood up for yourself. For us. For what we're trying to build here." She reaches out, takes my hand, and squeezes. "Thank you."
The touch is brief. Casual. But it settles something in my chest that's been tight since our argument.
"Come inside," she says. "I have bread in the oven and I desperately need to rage-bake something else before I explode."
The kitchen is warm and smells like yeast and honey. Iris pulls the bread from the oven: perfect, golden, obviously made during some earlier bout of stress and sets it to cool.
Then she braces her hands on the counter and takes a deep breath.
"Did grandmother coddle you?" she asks quietly, not looking at me.
"No." The word is simple. Final.
"Was she cruel?"
I consider the question carefully. "She was... efficient. I was a tool. Tools don't require cruelty or kindness. Just maintenance."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer I have." I move to stand beside her, not touching, just present. "She fed me regularly. Gave me orders I could follow. Maintained the bond so I never had to make choices. In her mind, I imagine she was being perfectly reasonable."
"And in your mind?"
"I don't know what I think anymore." The admission comes easier than it should. "No with so many years of her control. It was all I knew. I didn't question it because I didn't know how to question it. And now... " I stop, searching for words. "Now you're asking me to think for myself, and I don't know how. I don't know what I want beyond what I've been trained to want."
She turns to look at me fully. "Did you grieve her? When she died?"
