"Those are rare. Once a year at the festival, and usually it's banishment, not death." I cross my arms. "I hate the control. I disagree with nearly everything the Council does. But I don't hate living in Veritas." I pause. "For the most part."
Malachi's quiet laugh sends warmth through the bond. "For the most part."
"The Sages say I'm a contrarian with a problem with authority." I shrug. "I'd probably find something to complain about anywhere."
Amusement flickers through the bond, bright and warm.
I turn back to Draven. "I've never gone hungry. I've always had shelter. I've never feared for my life." I pause, considering my own words. "Until recently, anyway. So yes, I value what Lunaris provides. Even if I hate how it provides it."
He nods slowly, something unreadable in his expression.
"Why are you asking me this?"
"I was wondering if your perspective had shifted," he says. Before I can respond, his tone sharpens. "You remember how to access the tunnels?"
I blink. "Is this about the vault?"
He nods, then turns to Malachi. "Cato's hunters have arrived."
I stare at him. "Hunters? Who are they hunting?"
"His heir." Draven's jaw tightens. "Cato believes his son is here. In Lunaris."
"He believes he may be here?" My brows rise. "He doesn't know for certain?"
"Apparently not."
Something clicks in my mind. The memory trade. The selective erasure. "Can I ask you something personal?"
Draven nods.
"I've heard you retained most of your memories from before Lunaris. Everything except Cato." I study his face. "Do you know why? Or how that's even possible?"
"Freida told me my incantation was different from the standard ceremony. Different words, different intent." He shakes his head. "I couldn't tell you what that means. But there are journals in the vault, written by the scholars who created the elixir. If answers exist, they'll be there."
Different incantations. Different intent. It's always been the missing piece, the thing none of us could explain about the welcoming ceremonies. Why some residents forget everythingwhile others retain fragments. Why some lose themselves entirely.
I file the information away, another thread in a tapestry I'm only beginning to see.
"Kage and I discussed it," Malachi says, his voice shifting into something harder. More commanding. "We think it's best if you go ahead of us. Back to Vindariel."
Draven goes still. "With all due respect, I have to refuse." His voice is careful, controlled. "The last time I left you behind, I ended up trapped here for a decade. This is the final Reckoning. We cannot afford mistakes."
"You think I don't know that?" Malachi's scowl deepens. "If Cato's hunters found their way here, it means the wards in Vindariel may be compromised. If they fall, the others will need reinforcement."
"Vick has held the line for three centuries. I doubt my presence will tip the scales."
Malachi sets a hand on his shoulder. The gesture is firm. Final. "I am asking you to go."
Draven's eyes narrow. "Asking."
"I wouldn't if I didn't believe it was necessary."
Draven's jaw clenches. The silence stretches, taut as a bowstring.
I watch them, fascinated despite myself. Draven is broader and more imposing than even Malachi. The kind of man who commands attention simply by existing. And yet, there's no question who holds authority.
Malachi's hand on Draven's shoulder isn't a request. It's a reminder of rank. Whatever hierarchy exists between them, Malachi sits at its peak. Finally, Draven exhales. Something in him yields, though reluctance still lines his face.
