Arkai waited in front of his father's office like a man standing on the edge of a cliff.
The minutes crawled past. Each one felt like an hour, each second a small eternity of not-knowing.
He paced, short, tight circuits that ate at the worn stone of the corridor. He stopped. He paced again. He pressed his ear to the heavy wood of the door, heard nothing, and immediately felt foolish.
What was happening in there?
His father was not a gentle man. Not cruel, not intentionally, but not gentle. He was akin to a wolf who had spent decades protecting his territory, his family, his name. If he perceived Cecilia as a threat, if he decided she needed to be dealt with—
Arkai's hands clenched at his sides.
He had seen her power. He had felt it. Had watched her lift an entire hall full of people with nothing but will and mana. She wasn't wea or helpless.
But she was also injured. Exhausted. Running on fumes and stubbornness and something else he couldn't name.
