Ren's father hadn't realized how loud hunger could be until the first course arrived and the clatter inside his chest finally settled. The table was long, but only three settings were laid. His, his wife's, and the President's. Steam rose from simple dishes: clear bone broth brightened with herb-pearls, soft rice, grilled river fish brushed with citrus and salt. No show of power here. No gold leaf. Just food that warmed the mouth and loosened the jaw.
He ate carefully. His hands felt heavier than they should have. His wife kept glancing toward the dark windows, as if city lights could tell them something about their son.
The President ate a measured spoonful, set the porcelain aside, and spoke without ceremony. "You should know: your son will be discharged from the Academy hospital. He will be escorted to Zone Five. At your home." He let the sentence breathe. "Yato will be with him."
His wife's breath caught. The father felt the knot at the base of his skull loosen half a turn. "Thank you," he said, and realized there was more in the words than politeness. Gratitude. Relief. A piece of trust he hadn't wanted to hand over but had anyway.
"Thanks are unnecessary," the President replied. "Precautions are not favors. They are duties."
Silence pressed in around the edges of the table. Cutlery touched china with small, careful sounds. Somewhere beyond the door, wards pulsed like a slow, steady heartbeat.
"Zone Three to Zone Five at this hour," the father said, voice quieter than he intended. "There will be eyes."
"There are always eyes," the President said mildly. "Let them record a car and a closed door. That is all they'll have."
The second course arrived: greens blanched quick and slick with sesame, thin-sliced beef, a plate of flatbread that split with a soft sigh. The father ate because the body demanded it. His wife took only small bites, the way she did when thinking too fast.
The President did not fill the room with talk; he set it gently on the table and left it there. "When I was a younger man, the Palace kitchens fed me like this before any long night. Not heavy, not light. Enough to hold the shape." His gaze met the father's, unflinching. "Tonight is a long night for you."
The father didn't answer. He didn't know how. He could feel his wife's fingers under the table, grazing his knuckles, then holding.
"Yato won't test him," the President added, almost as an aside. "He is a blade, but not a reckless one."
The father nodded. He'd seen Yato's eyes. Not warm. Not cruel. Weight without threat. "He'll stay?" he asked.
"Until you will not arrive there," the President said. "Longer, if necessary."
Tea came next. Amber, clean, with the faint sting of mana-root. Dessert was sliced fruit chilled over frost-keys, a dust of sweet spice that woke the tongue. His wife finally ate with something like appetite, small piece by small piece, as if reclaiming territory.
The father set his cup down. "You said tomorrow," he ventured. "Arrangements."
"Yes." The President did not blink. "You will go home in the morning. You will sleep here, if you want. In the morning, a car will collect your family. You will come here or to the assigned site, depending on overnight advisories. You will see him. You will be told the path laid out. If adjustments are needed, we will make them quickly."
"And the world?" the father said, the word heavier than it should have been.
"The world will still be there," the President replied. "It isn't going anywhere."
He almost laughed at that—almost. Instead, he finished the tea and watched the way the candlelight climbed the glass and broke into little knives along the rim.
They didn't linger. The President stood first. "I won't say more tonight," he said, voice even. "There is a line between what a mind can hold and what it can carry. You are close to it."
The father rose with his wife. For a breath he imagined himself kneeling, asking something impossible and childish, let him be small again, just this once but he didn't. He only bowed his head, a fraction.
"Thank you for the meal," his wife said softly.
The President inclined his head. Guards, silent until needed, emerged from the edges of shadow. Their movements were precise, almost rehearsed, guiding the two of them through corridors with the president. When they had arrived…
At the door of the guest wing, the President's voice lingered: "Rest. Vehicles will be ready at dawn."
No excess words. No false comfort. Just the simple weight of order.
"Thank you my lord." Ren's father spoke.
"It's my duty. No thanks." The president calmly replied. "Take a rest."
Ren's father nodded. Then the president and his guards left. Ren's mother and father entered the chamber. A room.
The chamber they were given was vast by their Zone's measure. High windows draped in silks, wards inlaid across the lintel to still outside noise. Yet the space carried no rest.
His wife lay beside him on the untouched sheets, her eyes open in the dim, fixed on nothing. He knew what filled them. Their son's face. His breathing. His absence.
He turned on his side, staring at the ceiling's quiet geometry. Thoughts came sharp, unwelcome. The city's talk. The eyes that would follow them. What it meant for Ren, for them, for the small life they had built. His hand flexed once, then stilled. There were no answers, only the silent measure of hours.
At some point, sleep claimed them. Not deep, not whole. Just a shallow drift, long enough for the body to lose track of the clock.
Knock. A guard at the threshold. "The cars are ready."
The city was still half in shadow when they stepped outside. Air damp with the last thread of night, towers burning with mana-lines like veins of molten glass. The Palace loomed behind them, but distance softened its edges.
The car waiting at the steps was the same black depth as the Palace stones after rain. Doors opened without hands. They slid inside. Soft seals, a thrum low in the floor. As the vehicle lifted into the flow of night traffic, the father finally let his head rest against the cool glass.
Zone Three bled past them in wide, immaculate bands, clean lines, glossy façades catching the reflection of their own beauty. Then the roads narrowed. Lights took on a warmer tint. Vending stalls glowed at corners like small hearths. He watched the city change under the tires as surely as if the car moved through time and not distance. Zone Four's long blocks. Then Zone Five, familiar in the way a worn shirt fits the shoulder.
He glanced at his wife. Her eyes were on the window too.
The car slowed two streets from their home. The driver took a side lane he'd taken a thousand times in other lives. They turned again, and there. Near Ren's home, he stopped the car.