Page 140 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

“Because you always do something. Usually that brooding thing you do that scares the ladies away.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

The engine thrummed. The road ahead gleamed beneath the pale midday sun, light reflecting off the icicles on the tree branches, but he wasn’t seeing any of it.

“So, she’s the type who runs when things get hard?” Oromon’s voice began to rise. “Because if that’s what she thinks, she’s got another⁠—”

“No.” Ark’s voice cut through, quiet but firm. “It wasn’t that at all.”

“Then what?”

“She left because she’s good.” Each word weighed and measured. “Too good. She thought she was in the way—between me and Father. So, she stepped aside.”

He didn’t add the part about her father, the grief buried deep in her, the scar she’d carried since she was a girl. That pain wasn’t his to share.

Oromon shifted, some tension bleeding from his frame. “You sure that’s all it was?”

Ark nodded. “She saw what it meant to me. And she didn’t want me to carry the regret.” His fingers flexed on the wheel. “But I’m carrying it anyway. Different shape, same weight.”

Oromon leaned back with a long exhale, folding his arms. “Sounds like someone you shouldn’t let go.”

Ark didn’t answer right away. His mind had drifted back to Cassia’s laughter in his house, her silhouette in the morning light, the feel of her curled against him as if she belonged there.

He wasn’t ready to give up on her.

He didn’t plan to.

It was perhaps too much to expect that Kassenor would be pleased by the sudden attentiveness of his sons—especially now that they knew about his illness. The sitting area in his bedroom was kept comfortably dim, with only a little sunlight filtered through thick brocade curtains. A tea tray sat on the table between them, silver and quietly steaming, its contents largely untouched.

By the time greetings had been exchanged and the room settled into an uneasy quiet, their father was already shifting restlessly in his seat.

“You’re treating me like I’m on death’s door,” Kassenor muttered, glancing at the envelope Ark still held just out of reach. “Give me that. I have important matters to see to.”

“You’ve only just woken up,” Ark replied, tone even, though he kept his grip firm. “The council documents can wait.”

Kassenor’s gaze sharpened. “I’m not dead yet.”

“No,” came Delphyne’s voice from the wingback chair beside the fireplace, “and I’d prefer to keep it that way.”

She rose, crossed the room, and plucked the envelope from Ark’s fingers without a glance. Her footsteps muffled on the rug, she opened the lacquered cabinet drawer and tucked the letter away.

“Even if the Council is desperate,” she said, shutting the drawer with finality, “they can wait another day. Or two.”

“Delphyne—”

“You’re not ready.” Her voice carried that terrifying calm that always preceded something immovable. “I won’t have our sons running about this house as if you’re halfway to the grave. Nor will I let you work yourself back into it.”

His father opened his mouth—to argue, likely—then closed it again. His mother rarely raised her voice; she didn’t need to. Her presence filled the room like a rising tide: impossible to stop.

Kassenor settled back with a quiet huff.

Earlier that day, when Ark had returned from the train station with Oromon, their mother had stood at the top of the stairs, arms crossed, eyes narrowed against the winter sun. A silver lock of hair had come loose from her chignon. Her mouth had twitched, almost into a smile.

‘You’ve gotten broader,’ she’d said to Oromon, eyeing him like she might challenge him to a spar, if only she could find the time. ‘What have you been feeding yourself?’

Oromon had grinned. ‘Meat. Bread. The heavy lifting also helps.’

That had been it. No rushing down the stairs. No embrace. But the tremble in her fingers as she patted Oromon’s arm hadn’t gone unnoticed. Nor had the way Kassenor’s eyes softened, just for a flicker, when they brought his youngest son to his bedside—though the old demon tried to scowl through it.