"I do not know what you're—"
"Loss is merely design imposed upon us."
The words cut across his denial before it can finish.
Silence.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just sudden.
Mallious does not move.
For a heartbeat, he simply looks at me.
Then his eyes narrow.
Slightly.
Carefully.
The fire shifts, casting uneven light beneath the edge of my hood.
He studies the shape of my stance.
The stillness.
The tone.
"You choose your phrases deliberately," he says quietly.
"You taught me to."
His gaze drops.
The metal arm catches the firelight — articulated steel where flesh should be.
His eyes linger.
Lift.
Search my shadowed face again.
The squint deepens.
Recognition assembling.
"…Remove the hood."
It is no longer dismissal.
It is an order.
I do not hesitate.
I pull the fabric back.
Firelight climbs my jaw, my cheek, my eyes.
Mallious squints once—
And the moment aligns.
Shock fractures through his composure.
"…Wilkinson."
The name escapes before authority can contain it.
The denial is gone.
Only recognition remains.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
Then—
"You brought the boy," Mallious says.
"Yes."
"He stands straighter than you did at his age."
"You corrected me until I did."
A faint exhale.
"At table," he continues, "when I remarked upon his posture, he did not shrink."
"He was confused."
"He was steady."
"He was watching me."
"Yes."
The admission is unguarded.
"When I spoke of certainty — of succession — he did not look to Nux."
I do not respond.
"He looked to you."
The words are precise.
"He tracks your reactions before forming his own."
"That is training."
"That is attachment."
"That is apprenticeship."
The word settles between us.
"You assessed him thoroughly," I say.
"I spoke to him."
"You performed for him."
"The hall required it."
"And what did you conclude?"
"That he is perceptive. Disciplined. Unhardened."
"He will learn."
"Yes."
A beat.
"When I poured his wine, he did not drink."
"He was waiting."
"For you."
The fire cracks softly.
"You did not touch yours either."
"I was not thirsty."
"He noticed."
"He learns from observation."
"He learns from me."
The implication rests there.
"You speak as though he is already vulnerable," I say.
"He is."
"All apprentices are."
"No. Not in the same way."
Silence tightens.
"When I wrote to you of certainty, I meant more than succession," he says. "The council is aligning."
"With Nux."
"Yes."
"You stood beside him."
"I stood where stability required."
"By bending."
"By surviving."
His gaze holds mine.
"You taught me that."
"I taught you not to fracture."
"You taught me to harden."
"It was necessary."
"For whom?"
The question lingers.
"He is not you," Mallious says.
"No."
"He does not carry resentment."
"He has not been given reason."
"I do not want him shaped by suspicion."
"And you believe I am shaping him that way."
"I believe inheritance is rarely intentional."
"I was shaped for this place."
"You were carved for it."
The correction lands cleanly.
"And something in you was removed."
My mechanical fingers shift once.
"You regret it."
"I regret the severity."
"You chose it."
"Yes."
"And I survived it."
"You did."
"And I stand."
"You do."
"And you call that damage."
"I call it cost."
Silence.
"You liked him," I say.
"Yes."
No hesitation.
"He listens without filling silence. He observes without bitterness."
"You saw all that in one dinner."
"I saw enough."
"He is mine to train."
"Yes."
"And I will train him."
"I know."
His voice remains steady.
"And I will not mentor him as you mentored me."
The words land measured. Controlled. Edged.
Mallious does not recoil.
He does not defend himself.
"Good," he says quietly.
Not relief.
Not surrender.
Approval.
It unsettles me more than defiance would have.
"You assume I would repeat you."
"I assume legacy repeats itself unless interrupted."
"I am not you."
"No."
"I will not hollow him to test his resilience. I will not fracture him to hear whether he rings true."
Mallious watches me carefully.
"He does not need to be broken to become formidable."
"I agree."
A beat.
"And yet this court will try."
"I know."
"Nux will measure him."
"I know."
"And you?"
"I will teach him to see it coming."
"Without teaching him to distrust everything."
"That is preservation."
"That is risk."
The fire shifts again.
"You think I failed you," he says quietly.
"Yes."
The word does not waver.
He absorbs it without visible defense.
"I believed severity was virtue," he says after a moment.
"It was control."
"It was protection."
"It was fear."
The correction is quiet.
He does not argue it.
"I will not fail him the same way," I say.
"And if he softens where you hardened?"
"Then he softens."
"And if softness costs him?"
"Then he will understand the cost without having been engineered to expect it."
Silence stretches.
Clarified.
"At dinner," Mallious says, "when I spoke of council expectations, you resisted."
"Yes."
"He felt it."
"Yes."
"He aligns to you instinctively."
"He is my apprentice."
"He is also his own mind."
The firelight flickers across his features.
"I do not want him consumed by this court," Mallious says.
"And I do."
The correction is sharp.
"I want him sharpened by it."
"Without becoming it."
"Yes."
Silence settles once more.
"You care through preparation," Mallious says.
"And you care through preservation."
The difference hangs between us.
Neither clean.
Neither harmless.
The fire dims as a log collapses inward.
For a moment, we stand not as ruler and knight—
But as mentor and former apprentice.
Legacy between us.
Unresolved.
And somewhere beyond these walls—
A boy who will inherit whichever philosophy survives.