The words hang there, heavier than anything else I’ve said.
His expression changes.
Not much.
But enough.
“Because if I don’t,” I add, quieter now, “then stop pretending this is about strategy.”
His jaw tightens.
“That’s not?—”
“Then what is it?” I press.
He doesn’t answer.
Of course he doesn’t.
Because this isn’t about villages anymore.
Not really.
It’s about him.
About what he chooses to be.
And whether I’m part of that or not.
I hold his gaze.
Wait.
Not backing down.
Not moving.
“You don’t get both,” I say finally. “You don’t get to see what’s happening and do nothing, and then turn around and pretend you’re different from the rest of them.”
That lands harder than anything else.
And still?—
He doesn’t walk away.
18
VERR
The doors to my father’s chamber open the way they always do—slow enough to remind you that you’re entering on his terms, not yours. Stone grinds against stone somewhere deep in the walls, the sound low and deliberate, and the air that slips through the widening gap carries that familiar metallic edge of contained magic. It settles at the back of my throat as I step forward before the opening is complete, forcing the mechanism to accommodate me instead of the other way around.
My father doesn’t acknowledge it.
He’s seated behind the long obsidian table, one hand resting flat against the surface, fingers moving idly as if tracing lines only he can see. The room is too still, too controlled, everything placed with intention and nothing wasted on comfort. Even the light feels restrained—cold, clean, revealing nothing it doesn’t have to.
“Verginyon,” he says at last, without looking up. “You’re early.”
“I need to speak with you.”
