He turns.
Slowly.
His gaze settles on me with the same measured distance as before, but there’s a flicker of something else there now—not concern, not uncertainty.
Interest.
“You’ve been busy,” he says, his eyes flicking briefly to Lyria before returning to me.
“I’ve been learning,” I reply.
A few of the nobles shift at that, subtle movements, quiet exchanges, the kind of ripple that moves through a room before anyone decides whether to acknowledge it openly.
“Have you,” my father says.
“I have,” I confirm, stopping a few paces from him, close enough that the space between us feels intentional instead of formal.
“And what have you learned?” he asks.
I hold his gaze.
“That control without challenge is just assumption,” I say.
The room tightens.
Not visibly.
But I feel it.
My father’s expression doesn’t change.
“Careful,” he says.
“I am,” I reply.
The silence stretches just long enough to force attention onto the moment instead of away from it.
Then I take one more step forward.
“I challenge you,” I say.
The words land clean.
No hesitation.
No room to reinterpret.
Not as a son.
Not as anything except what they are.
A ripple moves through the chamber, sharper this time, voices rising just slightly before being forced back down.
My father watches me.
Really watches me now.
“This is not a discussion you win,” he says.
