“That’s not your role.”
“Then what is?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer.
Of course he doesn’t.
“I’m already part of this,” I continue, quieter now but no less firm. “You brought me into it the second you didn’t walk away.”
“That’s not?—”
“It is,” I cut in. “You don’t get to involve me when it suits you and then decide I don’t belong when it matters.”
The words hang there, not fragile, not uncertain—solid in a way I don’t think I’ve ever sounded before.
“So don’t stand there and tell me I don’t get a say in what happens next,” I add.
He doesn’t move.
Doesn’t step back.
Doesn’t leave.
And that?—
That’s enough to tell me I’ve already changed something.
20
VERR
The summons arrives faster than it should, and that alone is enough to put me on edge before I even touch it. When the courier steps in front of me, he doesn’t speak immediately, just holds the parchment out with both hands like it carries more weight than it should. His eyes never lift past my shoulder, and that tells me more than anything written inside it will.
I take it without slowing, the paper colder than expected against my fingers, the wax seal pressed deep enough to leave a faint ridge along the surface. My father doesn’t rush decisions, and he doesn’t send them this quickly unless the outcome serves him more than it serves anyone else. I break the seal with my thumb as I walk, scanning the contents in a single pass, then again more slowly as the shape of it settles.
Authorization granted. Expedition approved under your command.
No explanation. No conditions written out. No visible constraint.
I let out a quiet breath through my nose, folding the parchment once, then again with more care than necessary. “Ofcourse,” I mutter, more to the structure of it than the words themselves, because this isn’t agreement. It’s positioning.
Skot falls into step beside me without needing to be called, his presence aligning with mine like he was already moving in this direction before I started. He doesn’t ask for the parchment right away, just glances at it once before extending his hand.
“Good news?” he asks, tone neutral, though his attention sharpens slightly.
“Define good,” I reply, handing it over without breaking stride.
He reads it quickly, then again more deliberately, his eyes tracking the short lines as if there’s something between them he expects to find. When he looks back up, there’s no surprise in his expression, only confirmation.
“He agreed,” Skot says.
“Yes.”
“That was faster than expected.”
“Yes.”
We walk in silence for several steps, the corridor stretching long and narrow ahead of us, the stone walls holding the cool air in place. Our footsteps echo softly, controlled, each one measured without effort.
