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“Yes.”

He lowered himself beside the narrow observation slit. The storm flashed silver across his profile. One horn bore a shallow groove she had never noticed, cut near the base and polished smooth by years.

“I left someone once,” he said.

Kesta waited. Dreven rested his forearms on his knees. His tail lay motionless across the floor, an unnatural stillness.

“My sister was named Avarra. She commanded the northern wing of our defense fleet. Younger than I was. Better at seeing what people would do before they did it.”

“You tried to protect her.”

“I commanded her.”

The answer tasted bitter.

“When the empire demanded we surrender our border colonies, Avarra believed the offer concealed an extinction order. She wanted to evacuate the civilian stations before negotiations ended. I forbade it. Movement would have been interpreted as rebellion.”

“Was she right?”

“Yes.”

The word barely carried over the wind.

“The empire poisoned the stations while its diplomats remained at our table. Avarra broke my command and launched rescue ships. I ordered her back.”

Kesta looked at him now.

“Why?”

“Because imperial weapons had locked onto her vessels. Because I believed returning would save her.”

“And she refused.”

“She saved eleven thousand civilians.”

The storm boomed against the roof. Dreven’s silver eyes reflected no light. “Her ship was taken. The empire broadcast her interrogation to our fleet. They wanted me to understand that disobedience had a cost.” Kesta’s throat tightened. “What happened?”

“I surrendered three days later. They executed her anyway.”

The pattern beneath every locked door came clear. He had obeyed to save her; she had disobeyed to save others. Someone else had used both decisions against them.

“I’m sorry,” Kesta said.

Dreven’s fingers closed around his own wrist. “Afterward, I told myself the failure was hesitation. If I had commanded sooner, watched more closely, removed her ability to leave—”

“You might have stopped her from saving those civilians.”

“Yes.”

“And she still might have died.”

“Yes.”

He did not resist the truth, which made it hurt more. Kesta turned the fabric over in her hand. “My mother used to say control is grief pretending it can travel backward.” Dreven looked at her.

“She was a trauma surgeon,” Kesta explained. “She believed every bad outcome could be prevented if she worked harder, checked more, slept less. Eventually she started choosing for everyone around her. What we ate. Where we lived. Which risks counted as acceptable.”

“Did she harm you?”