The city had learned how to breathe around me.
That was the first thing I noticed.
Not fear—fear was loud. This was quieter. Controlled. Guards saluted without stiffness. Merchants spoke my name without whispering. People didn't look away when I passed anymore.
They looked expectant.
That should have felt like victory.
It didn't.
I stood on the balcony overlooking the inner district, hands resting on cold stone, watching people move through streets that now bent around my will. I had taken power without fire. Without banners. Without speeches.
I had taken it by removing options.
Once, I would have been proud of that.
Now it just felt… efficient.
Behind me, footsteps approached. I didn't turn. I already knew who it was. I could tell by the weight, by the hesitation, by the way the steps slowed near the doorway like the person wasn't sure they were still welcome.
"I didn't summon you," I said.
"I know," she replied. "But you're avoiding me."
I turned then.
Lysa stood in the doorway, armor half-unbuckled, travel dust still clinging to her boots. She looked thinner than the last time I'd seen her. Harder. Alive because she'd learned to stop trusting people too quickly.
She used to be in my party.
Back when that word still meant something.
"You shouldn't be here," I said.
She gave a dry laugh. "You always said that when you didn't want to hear the truth."
That stung more than it should have.
"I don't have time for old memories," I said.
"Good," she said. "Because I'm not here for nostalgia."
She stepped closer, stopping a few paces away. Close enough that I could see the scar on her cheek—the one she got the day I died.
The day she ran.
"I know what you're doing," she said. "And I know what it's costing you."
I folded my arms. "Then you know enough to leave."
She shook her head. "You're hollowing everything out. Guilds. Alliances. People. You call it control, but it's just… erosion."
"You didn't come here to lecture me," I said.
"No," she agreed. "I came to offer you something you don't have anymore."
I waited.
She took a breath. "Loyalty."
The word landed wrong.
Not because it scared me.
Because it tempted me.
"You don't get to use that word," I said quietly. "Not after the dungeon."
Her jaw tightened. "I didn't betray you."
"You left me," I said. "There's a difference only cowards care about."
Silence stretched between us.
Then she said, "I came back."
That stopped me.
She met my eyes. "I came back for your body. There was nothing left to save. But I buried what I could. I told the guild you died fighting. I kept your name clean."
I searched her face for a lie.
Found none.
That was worse.
"You should have let them forget me," I said.
"I couldn't," she said. "You mattered."
Once.
The word echoed in my chest like a crack.
"I'm not the person you think I am anymore," I said.
"I know," she replied. "That's why I'm here."
She stepped closer, voice low. "There's a faction moving against you. Quiet. Patient. They don't want your throne. They want you gone."
I didn't react. I already knew. But not that she knew.
"And you're telling me this because?" I asked.
"Because they asked me to help them," she said.
The city noise faded.
Every instinct sharpened.
"What did you say?" I asked.
"I said no," she replied immediately. "And then I came straight here."
I studied her like I would a blade—testing balance, searching for flaws.
"You could be lying," I said.
"I could," she agreed. "But if I were, you'd already be dead."
True.
I turned back to the city, breathing slowly. This was dangerous. Not because of the threat.
Because of the offer.
"Why come to me?" I asked. "Why not run?"
She hesitated. "Because I don't want to live in a world where the only way to survive is to become what you're becoming."
That hurt more than accusation.
"You think I enjoy this?" I asked.
"I think you're good at it," she said. "And that scares you."
I laughed once, bitter. "You're wrong."
She stepped closer still. "Then prove it."
I turned, anger flashing. "How?"
"Let me stay," she said. "Not as a subordinate. Not as a pawn. As someone who can tell you when you're crossing a line."
I stared at her.
This was madness.
Trust was weakness. Attachment was leverage. I had learned that lesson with blood and loss and power.
And yet…
Once, she had chosen not to betray me.
Even when running would have been easier.
"Do you know what happens to people who stand close to me?" I asked.
"Yes," she said softly. "They get used."
"Or broken," I added.
She nodded. "Then use me carefully."
I felt it then.
The choice.
Not tactical.
Personal.
If I accepted her, I risked everything I had built. If I rejected her, I confirmed something inside me that I wasn't sure I could come back from.
I turned fully to her.
"Stay," I said.
Relief flashed across her face—then faded when she saw my expression.
"But understand this," I continued. "If the day comes when I have to choose between my rise and your life… I won't hesitate."
She met my gaze. "I wouldn't want you to."
That scared me more than fear ever could.
She turned to leave, stopping at the door. "They'll move soon," she said. "And when they do, they won't come at you directly."
I nodded. "They never do."
After she left, I remained on the balcony long after the sun dipped below the rooftops.
I had made a mistake.
Or I had made the most dangerous decision of my life.
Letting someone close again.
Because if betrayal was inevitable—
Then the worst one would be the one I didn't want to commit.
And deep down, I knew exactly who that would be.