I scoop the print fragment and a portable drive with the full file tree, then turn.
“Fyr,” I say.
He flinches. “Yeah?”
“You’re coming with me,” I tell him.
His eyes widen. “To where?”
“To see Kel,” I say, and my voice turns into something sharp enough to shave. “Privately.”
Fyr hesitates. “Lonari, if you?—”
“If I’m wrong,” I finish, “then I apologize and buy him a nice bottle. If I’m right, we stop living in a puppet show.”
Fyr swallows. “And if the Nine?—”
I lean close. “If the Nine are watching, I want them to see my teeth.”
Kel’s chamberssmell like incense and sickness.
Not dramatic sickness. Not blood and rot. The kind of sterile, medicated air that tries to pretend it’s healing when it’s actually just managing decay. The lighting is warm and low, flattering,like someone designed the room to make a weak man look powerful.
Two guards outside the doors. Loyal. Nervous.
I mask the corridor security feed with a quick override and a nod to Renn. Doors lock behind us with a heavy, final sound. No cameras. No outside ears.
Just me, Fyr, and the man in the chair.
Kel sits behind his desk, life-support mask hissing faintly. His hands are folded neatly like he’s waiting for a meeting he scheduled.
He looks up when we enter.
“Lonari,” he says, voice filtered. “I didn’t summon you.”
“No,” I say. “You tried to summon Jordan.”
His eyes flick—annoyance, then caution. “You refused.”
“I refused,” I confirm.
Kel’s gaze shifts to Fyr. “And you brought… him.”
Fyr stiffens. “Godfather.”
Kel’s fingers tap once on the desk. “What is this?”
I walk forward and slap the death certificate fragment down on the polished wood.
The paper makes a soft sound.
It might as well be a gunshot.
Kel’s eyes drop to it.
He goes still.
I watch his throat. Even with the mask, I see the swallow.
