Page 41 of Maksym

“Make sure it remains so.”

“For the moment.”

“For the moment,” he repeated.

There was no heat in his voice. That was how I knew the fury had gone cold enough to become structural.

“I will come,” he said.

“Not yet.”

The words left my mouth before prudence could dress them differently. Silence again. This time it was aimed at me. I stood behind my desk and accepted it.

“Explain,” my father said.

“Treachery lives in shadows. If you descend on the West with the full weight of your wrath before we know the extent of the network, we will kill Devereux and lose the rest.”

“I did not suggest impatience.”

“No,” I said. “You suggested arrival. In certain contexts, Father, your arrival and war are difficult to distinguish.”

That earned me a pause. Under different circumstances, he might have found it amusing. Under these, he let it pass because it was true.

I continued, steadier now. “My kingdom spans too much territory. Your dominion spans more. No ruler, however vigilant, sees every dark corner at once. This was hidden because men who profit from slavery understand what discovery costs. They buried it carefully. They used status, distance, fear, and money. Perhaps magic. Perhaps legal fronts. Perhaps human institutions.”

The word human nearly caught in my throat, but I forced it through.

“Grace was a federal prosecutor. Complex financial crimes and trafficking. If Devereux targeted her because of her work, or because she came too close to something, the conspiracy may cross both worlds.”

Kazimir did not answer immediately. My father had built power slowly enough to understand patience. But he loved his bloodline with a brutality that made patience a discipline rather than a virtue.

“You defend me,” he said at last.

“I state a fact.”

“I wrote the law.”

“Yes.”

“I made examples.”

“Yes.”

“And still they return to old appetites.”

“They return because appetite does not respect law. Only consequences.”

His voice lowered. “Then consequences shall be made memorable.”

“They will,” I said. “But wide. Every person involved. Every forged document. Every estate. Every donor registry corrupted. Every guard paid to look away. Every Elder who suspected and preferred comfort over truth. If we cut one head from this thing too early, the body scatters.”

The line held silence again, but this one was different. He was absorbing. Reordering. Making room for strategy around fury. Good.

My father had taught me that anger was useful only when harnessed to a foundation. Otherwise, it was merely weather.

“Taras?” he asked.

“Already moving.”