And then Vidar stepped forward.
“I was his son.”
The words came out rough, as if they hadn’t been meant for air at all. Vidar’s throat worked, his hands clenching mid-sentence, the claim sounding less like a declaration than something forced up from too deep, spilled before he could stopit.
For one suspended heartbeat, the congregation didn’t respond.
Not silence in the gentle sense. Silence as impact. As something dropped into the center of the family and allowed to detonate.
The claim landed in Alaric’s chest like pressure. Not shock. He didn’t allow himself the luxury of shock. Instead there was an immediate, automatic recalibration that came from any power shift.
If Vidar was lying, he had chosen this place and this hour because it insulatedhim.
If he was telling the truth, then the damage was alreadysystemic.
Sera’s froze beside him. Not dramatically. Just enough that Alaric knew she’d recognized the same thing hehad.
His sisters reacted in sequence, each according to her nature.
Astrid’s head turned, eyes narrowing as if she were reading a contract clause she disliked. The two in the middle exchanged a quick, disbelieving look. Elise didn’t gasp. She didn’t soften. Her expression stayed distant, arms still folded, as if the announcement merely confirmed a judgment she had reached about their father years ago, rather than delivering any real shock.
And then the silence shattered.
“What?” one of his sisters said, voice bitter with disbelief. “That’s not possible.”
Vidar held his ground with practiced composure. Red-rimmed eyes. Shoulders slightly bowed, as if the grief itself had bent him. The performance was flawless.
“It is,” he said softly. “I’m Bjorn’s son.”
Astrid, stepping into attorney-mode, took one step forward. Not aggressive. Not emotional. Final.”If you’re claiming blood,” she said coolly, “we’ll require proof.”
Alaric watched Vidar’s mouth for the smallest flickerof hesitation.
None came.
“Of course,” Vidar said. “I welcome it.”
The ease of the agreement scraped along Alaric’s nerves. Too ready. Too clean.
Voices rose. Not a shouting match, not in the sanctuary, heavy with reverence and watchful eyes, but sharp, overlapping pieces of argument.
“This is a funeral,” someone snapped.
“He chose now,” another voice replied.
The Severin machine began to engage around him, family members impulsively reaching for order, for a way to contain the damage before it spread.
He could have ended it with a single sentence. He could have ordered Vidar out. He could have refused to entertain ithere.
But refusal would look likefear.
And Vidar had chosen this setting precisely because he knew the family’s rules.
Alaric remained still, hands clasped in front of him, posture rigid, Underboss mode holding his face neutral even as his mind moved.
Beside him, Magnus went taut. Not subtly. Not quietly, but like a pressure change, the barely leashed violencein his brother tightening to a dangerous edge. Magnus’s jaw worked, his hands curling as if he were one breath away from breaking decorum and crossing the aisle.
Leif moved without looking athim.
