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Then, after a moment, he said, “My mother would too.”

The medical strip slipped from my fingers and stuck to my thigh. I didn’t move to peel it off. Veyr never offered personal information unless I dragged it out of him—this came freely, quiet and unforced.

I looked up.

He was staring toward the window, his profile sharp against the pale light.

“She thinks you’re dead.”

“Yes.”

His voice was flat. Too flat.

“How long has she believed that?”

“Eight years.”

I knew the number. Hearing it attached to his mother made it different. Made it real.

“Your sister too?”

“Yes.”

I returned the medical strip to the kit. My fingers lingered on the cool plastic casing, needing the distraction. “Did they tell them how it happened?”

“Military action.”

“Specifics?”

“Enough.”

“Honors?”

His lips pressed into a thin line. A muscle jumped in his jaw before he said, “Yes.”

The word landed between us like something heavy and cold.

“What kind?”

“Talia.” His voice warned.

“You don’t have to.”

He held my gaze, weighing something. Then, quietly: “Posthumous commendations.”

My hands stilled. “Your mother has medals. For your death.”

“Yes.”

“While you were alive.”

A beat of silence. “Yes.”

I sat beside him.

Not because I meant to.

Because standing over him suddenly felt wrong.