He studies me for a moment longer, then turns, already finished.
“You have served your purpose,” he says. “Now you will serve as an example.”
“To who?”
He pauses just long enough to acknowledge the question.
“Everyone.”
Then he leaves.
The silence settles again,heavier this time, pressing in from all sides as I sit there and let the shape of it take form. Execution. Soon. No leverage. No authority. No?—
I exhale slowly, leaning forward, elbows braced against my knees as my fingers lace together.
No.
That’s not right.
I lift my head slightly, staring at the door, letting the edges of the situation sharpen instead of blur.
They think this is finished.
They thinkI’mfinished.
They think?—
A quiet breath leaves me, something that almost turns into a laugh before I catch it.
“Yeah,” I murmur, voice low against the stone. “We’ll see.”
32
VERR
The doors don’t open when I reach them, and the stillness of that refusal settles under my skin faster than anger does. The polished black stone reflects just enough of my shape to remind me where I stand and what this place is supposed to recognize, but the mechanism remains unmoved, silent in a way that feels deliberate rather than mechanical. The guards flanking the entrance don’t shift, don’t acknowledge me beyond the bare fact of my presence, their attention fixed just past me as if I’ve already been accounted for and dismissed.
“Open it,” I say, my voice even, controlled by habit more than intention.
Neither of them responds. The air between us tightens slightly, not from threat, but from the absence of expected reaction, and I step closer, the faint echo of my boots against the stone carrying further than it should in the quiet.
“Open. The door.”
One of them finally moves, though it’s barely more than a shift of weight, enough to acknowledge the sound without conceding to it. “We have orders,” he says, his tone flat, rehearsed, like the answer has been waiting longer than I have.
“I am giving you new ones,” I reply, the words coming sharper now, faster, the edge I usually keep buried slipping through without permission.
“Those orders supersede yours.”
That lands differently when spoken aloud. Not surprising, not new, but undeniable in a way that strips away the illusion I’ve been operating under. I take another step forward, close enough now to see the faint tightening at the edge of his jaw, the subtle adjustment of his grip.
“You’re making a mistake,” I say, quieter.
“No,” he replies, meeting my gaze directly this time. “You are.”
The door opens behind him then, not in response to me, but because something on the other side has chosen it. The shift in air is immediate, cooler, heavier, carrying the sense of a space that doesn’t bend around presence but enforces it. I don’t wait for permission. I move past them as the door closes behind me, sealing the corridor away like it never existed.
My father is already inside.
