The square looked smaller when it was empty.

  Sei stood at its edge long after the last civilian had gone, watching soldiers scrub residue from the stone with stiff, methodical movements. The pale scorch where the shard had shattered was already being chiseled away, fragments collected and sealed like evidence no one wanted to remember existed.

  No blood.

  That was what unsettled him most.

  If there had been blood, people would have spoken about wounds and victims. Instead, the city buzzed with half-finished sentences and contradictions.

  “He stopped it.”“No—he caused it.”“The King screamed.”“The King didn’t make a sound.”

  Truth fractured into versions that suited whoever held it.

  Sei flexed his hands. They were steady. They hadn’t been during Greymark. That should have comforted him.

  It didn’t.

  It felt like adaptation.

  And adaptation, unchecked, frightened him.

  The council chamber was quieter than usual.

  Marshal Durn Halbrecht stood with his arms crossed, broad shoulders filling the space like a barricade. His draconic eyes were fixed on a point above the table, jaw set.

  “This was not an assassination,” Durn said flatly. “It was penetration. Someone entered our response chain.”

  Inquisitor Kaelen Rhyse inclined her head slightly. “Information was either leaked or inferred. Either way, internal assumptions were exploited.”

  Her tone was neutral. Careful. Almost surgical.

  Brannic Vale leaned forward, palms flat against the table. “The people are unsettled,” he said. “Not hostile. But uncertain. And uncertainty spreads faster than fear.”

  Archivist Liora Venn sat rigidly, eyes distant. “The device used was not meant to kill. It was meant to provoke.”

  “And observe,” Brannic added quietly.

  Silence followed.

  Elder Maerwyn did not speak.

  That silence pressed heavier than any accusation.

  At last, King Aldric broke it.

  “They wanted to know who he would save,” Aldric said calmly, despite the pain etched into his posture. “And they learned.”

  No one argued.

  That, too, was troubling.

  Rhen found Sei near the inner gardens, where ivy crept over stone still scarred by siege.

  “You chose civilians,” Rhen said without preamble.

  Sei didn’t turn. “There wasn’t time to weigh it.”

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  “There never is,” Rhen replied. “That’s why it mattered.”

  Sei exhaled slowly. “They wanted escalation.”

  “Yes,” Rhen said. “And you refused.”

  “That’s good,” Sei said.

  Rhen’s gaze sharpened. “It’s predictable.”

  Sei looked at him then.

  “They’re not afraid of what you can do,” Rhen continued. “They’re studying what you won’t.”

  The words settled like weight in Sei’s chest.

  “What happens next?” Sei asked.

  Rhen shrugged. “They push until restraint costs more than action.”

  “That gets people killed.”

  Rhen didn’t deny it.

  Eva stopped Sei before he could disappear into thought.

  “You don’t go into the city alone,” she said. Not a request.

  “I wasn’t—”

  “You will be watched,” Eva cut in. “And not all of them will be enemies.”

  Sei frowned. “You think the people—”

  “I think people decide faster than councils,” Eva said. “And slower than fear.”

  She hesitated, then added more quietly, “I’ve seen this before.”

  “From the Dominion,” Sei said before he could stop himself.

  Eva’s jaw tightened. “From both sides.”

  “You’re not being punished,” she said after a moment. “You’re being protected. Until you decide what you’re willing to be.”

  Sei nodded, though the answer didn’t come.

  Night fell without ceremony.

  Sei stood alone on the palace balcony, Toradol spread beneath him in lanternlight and shadow. Somewhere below, voices murmured his name—sometimes with hope, sometimes with suspicion, often with neither. Just curiosity sharpened into expectation.

  He looked down at his hands.

  Still steady.

  Still unchanged.

  That frightened him more than exhaustion ever had.

  Because it meant he was adapting.

  And adaptation could harden into something unrecognizable.

  He turned from the balcony.

  He didn’t pack much. He didn’t need to. A cloak. Boots. The quiet habits of someone used to moving unseen. He slipped through service corridors and half-lit halls, following paths meant for those who did not want attention.

  The outer gate was close.

  Too close.

  “You won’t make it past the second watch.”

  Sei stopped.

  Elder Maerwyn stood ahead in the corridor, hands folded within her sleeves, torchlight tracing age without diminishing authority.

  Behind him, footsteps approached.

  Eva stepped out of shadow, arms crossed—not angry, not surprised.

  Disappointed.

  Rhen leaned against the opposite wall, expression unreadable, eyes sharp and assessing.

  Sei exhaled slowly.

  “You were going to leave,” Eva said.

  “Yes,” Sei answered.

  “To run?” Rhen asked.

  “No,” Sei said, meeting his gaze. “To prepare.”

  Maerwyn tilted her head slightly. “For what?”

  “For the next test,” Sei said quietly. “They won’t stop. And I can’t keep reacting like this.”

  Eva’s jaw tightened. “You think leaving fixes that?”

  “I think staying still makes it worse,” Sei replied. “I don’t understand my power. I barely control it. Every time I hold back, someone else pays the cost.”

  “You saved lives today,” Eva said.

  “And next time,” Sei said, voice steady but strained, “they’ll design it so saving lives means losing more.”

  Silence followed.

  Maerwyn studied him for a long moment.

  “You believe strength comes from distance,” she said.

  “I believe control comes from understanding,” Sei replied. “And I won’t find that here. Not while I’m being watched. Not while every mistake becomes a lesson for someone else.”

  Rhen straightened. “You don’t even know where you’d go.”

  “No,” Sei admitted. “But I know what happens if I don’t move.”

  Eva looked away first.

  Then back at him.

  “You don’t leave Toradol without telling us,” she said. “And you don’t do it alone.”

  Maerwyn’s voice followed, quiet but absolute.

  “You will not run from this,” she said. “But neither will you stagnate.”

  Sei swallowed.

  For the first time that night, something in his chest aligned—not relief, but resolve.

  “Then help me,” he said. “Before the next test costs more than we can afford.”

  Maerwyn inclined her head.

  The fault line beneath Toradol did not crack.

  But it widened.