That’s the problem.
“You’re relying on precedent,” I say.
“I am.”
“Precedent doesn’t apply to Krago.”
“It applies to everything,” he replies. “You’re choosing not to see that.”
I exhale slowly, pulling my hand back from the table before the tension in it becomes visible.
“You’re making a mistake,” I say.
My father smiles slightly, the expression faint and entirely unbothered.
“Then learn from it.”
That’s the end of it. Not because the conversation is resolved, but because he’s finished with it. There’s no escalation, no argument, just a quiet closing of the space where this could have gone differently.
I incline my head just enough to acknowledge the dismissal without conceding anything.
“As you wish.”
He doesn’t respond. His attention has already shifted elsewhere.
I turn and leave.
The doors close behind me with that same slow, grinding certainty, sealing the room off like nothing inside it ever needed to matter beyond its walls. The corridor feels sharper when I step into it, the air cooler against my skin, the silence carrying more weight than it did before.
“Expected.”
Skot’s voice meets me before I see him.
I don’t stop immediately, letting a few more steps carry me forward before I slow enough for him to fall into place beside me.
“No,” I say. “It wasn’t.”
“It should have been.”
“That doesn’t make it correct.”
“No,” he agrees. “It makes it predictable.”
I stop then, turning slightly to face him. He stands the same way he always does—hands behind his back, posture unobtrusive, presence controlled to the point of invisibility unless you’re looking for it.
“What now?” I ask.
He watches me for a moment, measuring in his own way.
“You’ve been denied direct action,” he says. “That limits your approach.”
“It limits my authority.”
“Yes.”
That lands clean. No argument, no softening.
I hold his gaze. “Then I find another way.”
