His mouth curves faintly.
Not approval.
Never approval.
“Insignificant,” he echoes. “And yet you spent time on it regardless.”
“I corrected the issue.”
“You avoided the issue. If the humans see you being merciful, then they will all begin to expect it.”
The words land heavier than they should.
Around us, the air shifts. Conversations soften—not enough to stop, but enough to listen.
I keep my posture steady.
“I made a decision.”
“Yes,” Maltos says softly. “You did.”
A pause stretches between us.
Long enough to feel deliberate.
“And that is precisely the problem.”
Something tightens low in my chest. I ignore it.
“You think restraint is weakness,” I say.
“I know it is weakness,” he replies. “When it applies to disciplining the humans. Tell me, my boy, does the huntsman tarantula fear a mere ant?”
“Of course not,” I say.
“But what would happen if that same spider stumbled onto a nest of ants? They would swarm the huntsman and slay it.”
I arch an eyebrow at him, choosing my words carefully.
“Humans are not ants,” I reply. “They do not act with one singular mind.”
“No, but they might, and if we let up on them even slightly, our way of life is in jeopardy.”
I snort.
“It sounds almost as if you fear them--”
I see the movement, and I could dodge it, but I know better. The slap lands heavy on my cheek, turning my face to the side. I taste the bitter iron of my own blood in my mouth. I’ve bit my own tongue and my lip already swells plump like an overripe fruit. Despite this, I keep my feet, and do not even take so much as a step back.
“See, boy?” Maltos says, his eyes widening. “That is the power of discipline.”
“I was fully in control,” I reply, not giving him the satisfaction of displaying any discomfort or pain.
His gaze sharpens, just slightly.
“You are either controlled or you are not. You do not get to choose when it suits you.”
“I was controlled.” My voice lacks conviction. The truth is, I was not fully in control of the raging fire within me. And my father knows it.
