They don’t chain me.
They don’t need to.
The door closes with a final, solid sound that doesn’t echo so much as disappear.
I sit on the edge of the narrow bench, flexing my fingers slowly, feeling the lingering pressure where they held me. No restraints. No visible weaknesses. Confidence built into every decision.
The door opens again sooner than I expect, the shift in air subtle but immediate as someone steps inside. I don’t stand. I don’t straighten. I let him take in exactly what he expects to see.
Maltos doesn’t need introduction. His presence fills the space without effort, his gaze moving over me once, measured, not curious, not impressed.
“So,” he says, his tone flat, almost disinterested. “This is what has caused so much disruption.”
I tilt my head slightly.
“I was under the impression that was your son.”
One of the guards shifts.
Maltos doesn’t.
“Careful.”
“Why?” I ask. “You planning to kill me twice?”
A flicker crosses his expression—small, almost imperceptible.
“Bold.”
“Practical.”
He steps closer, stopping just outside reach, not because he’s concerned, but because he doesn’t need to close the distance to control it.
“You understand your position.”
“Perfectly.”
“And yet you continue to speak.”
“I don’t see the benefit in stopping.”
His gaze sharpens slightly, like he’s adjusting his expectations in real time.
“Your execution has been scheduled.”
The words settle into the space between us without weight, without emphasis, which somehow makes them land harder.
“When?” I ask.
“Soon.”
“That’s vague.”
“That’s intentional.”
I nod once.
“Of course it is.”
