The rationalization is thin. I know it's thin.
I choose not to examine it further.
I shouldn’t be interested in a human female I met twenty minutes ago. Or standing at a window thinking about tomorrow, about when she'll see her brother, about when she'll begin her work, about when I'll see her again. She's a complication I should never allow through my door.
The comm notification arrives before I've taken three steps from the window. My father requires my presence. The words are formal, transmitted through official channels rather than direct contact. Not a request. Vorath doesn't make requests.
The timing is unusual. Routine debt acquisitions don't warrant his attention. He has an entire network of subordinates to track such mundane transactions, and he delegates everything that doesn't threaten House Draven's position. Yet here is his summons, delivered within minutes of Maeve Vance walking out of my office.
There's no way to ignore my father's summons. The walk to his wing takes seven minutes through corridors that grow colder the deeper I travel into the compound's core. The guards here answer to him, not to me. They nod as I pass, but their eyes track my movements with the same attention they'd give any potential threat. I've walked these halls since childhood. I've never been welcome in them.
Vorath's office is a study in controlled emptiness. No windows. No decoration. A single desk carved from black stone, positioned so that anyone who enters must cross fifteen feet of open floor before reaching it. The furniture is sleek and austere. The gleaming surfaces are only to be seen and never touched. Every element of this room exists to intimidate, and it works every time I step foot in his office no matter how old I grow.
My father doesn't rise when I enter. He's reviewing data on his display, and he lets me stand in silence for a full thirty seconds before he acknowledges my presence. His black eyes lift to mine. Not silver, like mine. Like my mother's were.
“Drazex.”
“Father.”
He gestures to the chair across from his desk. I sit only when he offers the invitation, every muscle tightening. I'd rather stand to listen to what he wants to say to me.
“The Sethrak situation,” he says. “Your assessment.”
We discuss territory disputes for ten minutes. An incursion near the mining sector, a shipment that went missing, the question of whether House Sethrak is testing our borders orsuffering from poor internal discipline. I give him my analysis. He listens without expression, asks two questions, dismisses the topic with a slight movement of his hand.
He never rushes. The pace of every conversation belongs to him.
“That human female,” he says. “The medic.”
Of course. He has eyes everywhere, surveillance throughout the compound, informants in every division, a network I've never mapped despite decades of trying. I shouldn't be surprised he knows about her. The cold weight in my stomach is a surprise.
“A debt transfer,” I say. “Her brother owed two hundred thousand credits. She offered her skills in exchange for his obligation. Combat medic, colony wars veteran, xenobiology training. The mathematics favored acquisition.”
“You handled the negotiation.”
“Her qualifications warranted direct assessment.”
“And you've assigned her to your private wing.”
I keep my expression neutral. “Staff quarters are at capacity. The private wing has unused space.”
My father studies me. His face gives nothing away, but I read the silences between his words. He's not angry. Anger would be easier. He's curious, and my father's curiosity has never ended well for its subjects.
“House Korvan had a lord named Varek once. Before Achiel's time. Before his father's time.” Vorath pauses, letting the history settle. “Varek ruled with strength. Decisive. He built the weapons trade into what it is today. Varek had a son. The son was charismatic. Beloved by the enforcers. When the son decided he wanted power before his father was ready to relinquish it, the enforcers followed him.”
I've heard this story a hundred times. Every heir in the Syndicate has. The houses teach it as a warning, though different families draw different lessons from it.
“The coup lasted three days,” Vorath continues. “Varek died badly. His son ruled for eleven years before his own lieutenant did the same to him.” My father's black eyes hold mine. “Varek made the mistake of believing his son's loyalty would survive his son's ambition. He was wrong.”
The silence that follows carries its own weight. I don't respond. There's no response expected.
“Weapons are replaceable, Drazex. Enforcers are replaceable. Assets are replaceable.” He leans back, the first movement he's made since I sat down. “The moment you believe otherwise, you've handed your enemies a target. And I am very good at identifying targets.”
I understand what he's telling me. I've understood it since I was twelve years old and watched him execute my mother for the crime of making him want her. Love makes you weak. Attachment is vulnerability. Any value I place on anything other than House Draven will be noted, measured, and eliminated. Whatever I gave away between the human female and myself, he saw it.
“The medic is a practical acquisition,” I say. “Nothing more.”
My father nods once. “See that it stays that way.”
