They soon arrived.
The sound of hooves against stone echoed through the outer courtyard of Babel as the last surviving horse came to a halt. The Summoned dismounted slowly, stiff and exhausted, their armor scraped and dulled by two days of forced marching. Dust clung to them like a second skin. Hunger sat heavy in their eyes. But none of them spoke.
Oma jumped off the horse the moment it stopped—impatient as ever.
He landed lightly, barely bending his knees, and straightened at once. His eyes swept across Babel with sharp, restless intensity. Towers of white stone and polished obsidian rose into the sky, threaded with glowing veins of runic light. Bridges connected spires like arteries in a living body. Airships drifted lazily above the city, sails humming softly. Water ran through carved channels along the streets, clean and bright, reflecting the sun like liquid glass.
For a moment—just a fraction of a second—Oma was overwhelmed.
I saw it in the way his breath hitched, in the way his fingers curled slightly at his sides. Babel was nothing like the continent he came from. Nothing like the wild, feral lands ruled by predators and fear. This city was civilization sharpened into a weapon. Order made beautiful. Power refined.
But his focus did not break.
Hatred anchored him. Purpose steadied him.
As soon as the gates to the castle creaked open, Oma stepped forward without hesitation. He ignored the guards. Ignored the banners. Ignored the hundreds of eyes now watching him with a mix of awe, fear, and confusion.
He stopped the very first person he encountered.
"Where is Victor Zefar?" he demanded.
His voice was calm, but it carried something dangerous beneath it—like a blade hidden in cloth.
Unlucky for him, the person he stopped was my daughter.
Naya.
She stood there frozen for half a second, her healer's satchel hanging from one shoulder, her dark hair tied loosely behind her head. She had been on her way to the infirmary, already alerted that the Summoned had returned in poor condition. She had not been expecting a boy her own age to appear at the gates looking like he had crawled out of a battlefield.
She took one look at him.
Bruises darkened his arms and ribs. Dirt streaked his face. Dried blood marked his knuckles. His clothes were torn in places, stained with sweat and ash. He looked less like a prince and more like a feral child who had survived something he should not have.
Naya didn't answer his question.
Instead, she walked straight up to him and grabbed his cheeks with both hands.
"Why are you asking for my father," she said sharply, tilting his face left and right, inspecting him like a broken toy, "when you clearly need a doctor?"
Oma froze.
Completely.
His eyes widened just a little. Not in fear—no, Oma did not fear easily—but in pure shock. I doubted he had ever been touched so casually before, let alone by a girl. Even if he had, none of them would have been like Naya.
She was beautiful in the way only someone who saved lives could be. Bright-eyed. Confident. Unafraid. Her presence radiated warmth and certainty, the opposite of the cold, predatory world Oma came from.
"Don't worry," she continued, utterly unfazed by his silence. "I can patch you up."
Oma opened his mouth to protest.
No sound came out.
She grabbed his wrist and started dragging him away.
"Wait—" he finally managed.
"Nope," Naya said, already pulling him toward the inner halls. "No one is seeing Daddy until they get checked up and have a long, nice shower."
She glanced back at him, narrowing her eyes.
"And I mean long."
That shut him up.
Oma hesitated, then stiffened as realization struck him. Two days of walking. Two days of sweat, blood, fear, and death. He could smell himself now that someone had pointed it out. His jaw clenched in embarrassment.
He didn't resist.
The Summoned watched in stunned silence as the boy who had threatened to turn them all into food was dragged away by a healer half his size.
And that was when the idea hit me.
Oma wanted me dead because he believed I was the devil.
A monster. A tyrant. A god of death wearing a man's face.
He had come here convinced that killing me would fix the world.
But what if I didn't confront him?
What if I didn't argue, threaten, or justify myself?
What if I let the children of Babel do it for me?
I watched as Naya pulled him deeper into the castle, already scolding him about infection and poor hygiene. Oma listened in rigid silence, like a predator unsure whether it had wandered into a trap or sanctuary.
If I let all the kids in the castle—especially Naya—get close to him, something would change.
Sooner or later, he would realize the truth.
He had come to kill the father of over a thousand children.
Children who laughed in the halls. Children who studied, trained, healed, dreamed. Children who had been orphaned by wars far worse than the one he knew.
What kind of monster would do that?
I felt a smile creep onto my face as I relished the thought.
Not a cruel smile.
A patient one.
I decided then and there that I would avoid Oma for one full month.
No meetings. No speeches. No confrontations.
I would make Naya his guide.
I would quietly instruct the other children to include him. To talk to him. To treat him not as a weapon or a prince, but as one of them.
Let him eat with them. Train with them. Laugh with them.
Let him see Babel not as a throne to be toppled, but as a home filled with life.
Which ten-year-old would want to be a cold-hearted killer when surrounded by friends?
Which child could hold onto hatred when faced with warmth, curiosity, and belonging?
Especially with someone like Naya nearby.
I leaned back, watching the gates close behind the last Summoned.
Oma had come to Babel to end my life.
Instead, I would let him live in it.
And when the time came—when he finally stood before me again—it wouldn't be with blind rage.
It would be with understanding.
And only then would I accept whatever judgment he chose to deliver.