Chapter 32 #3
“I chose ‘busy’ over ‘broken,’” Kassenor said.
“I thought the former would make you strong, and the latter would only make you fearful.” He finally met Ark’s gaze.
“And I was ashamed. Not of you. Never you, or your brother. I was ashamed to have you see the mighty Daemar brought low by his body’s limitations. If you had known I was crumbling—”
“I wanted a father,” Ark cut in. “Not a monument.”
His father’s lips quirked into a smile again. “How ironic that I wanted to be that rock for you.”
“I would’ve taken you broken, sick, trembling, if it meant I got to have you.”
“Would you have preferred to watch it happen in real time? Would you have felt better knowing each missed dinner was because I couldn’t rise from bed, or hold a fork without trembling? That some days I didn’t even have enough energy to send a magic missive?”
“Yes,” Ark insisted, his voice turning vehement. “I would.”
Kassenor’s eyes closed, a spasm of pain crossing his features. “I wanted your anger to be a fuel. I never meant for it to be a prison.”
“My anger wasn’t fuel. It was a wall. I built it so high I couldn’t see you on the other side. And now . . .” His voice broke as he looked down at their joined hands. “Now there’s no time left to tear it down.”
Kassenor squeezed him. The strength in it was not to be overlooked.
“Do not fret. I’ve been proclaimed as dying since I was three years old.
My first physician declared I wouldn’t live to see my tenth birthday, then twenty, then thirty .
. .” His eyes strayed to Delphyne’s figure, standing beside the fireplace on the other side of the room.
“Ask your mother. One of the physicians swore I wouldn’t live long enough to witness the birth of my own sons.
The truth is, Arkenoth, physicians hardly know anything.
Mortals have proven, time and again, to be stubborn enough to outlive their fates. I will simply be another example.”
Ark laid his other hand over his father’s, hoping—praying—he was right.
Kassenor’s eyes drifted closed for a moment. “I know what my distance cost you,” he murmured. “I know what I chose. And though I regret the distance I carved between us, I don’t regret protecting you and your brother from watching me waste away day by day.”
“Does anyone in the council know?” Ark asked.
His father opened his eyes. “I hope not, though I can’t be sure.
” He scoffed. “There are enough families already watching me, waiting for the cracks. If word spread that I was unwell, there’d be power grabs.
Houses who never wanted the Four Factions to coexist in the first place, using my weakness as their opening, angling for the first opportunity to tear down the work we’ve done for four hundred years. ”
Ark narrowed his eyes. “The secessionists.”
His father’s mouth pressed thin. “They’ve been quieter, the last few years. But quiet isn’t the same as surrender.” Those golden eyes found him again. “And you know who’s been stirring the pot.”
Ark’s jaw ticked. Agmon Alderrath. His first gambit had been a marriage alliance—his sister Lucindra in exchange for a direct line to the Varil power.
With that door slammed in his face, he was undoubtedly already moving his next piece into place.
The question was no longer if he would strike, but what other weapon he had up his sleeve.
Kassenor sighed. But, for once, he looked unburdened.
“For years, I struggled with my decisions. On one hand, I wanted you to create your own life, unburdened by the legacy my own ancestors placed on my shoulders. On the other . . .” His father looked at him.
“I suppose I also hoped that if I just stayed standing long enough, you’d come around on your own.
You would’ve been good at it. Better than most of them. You have the pedigree, the brain.”
After a pause, his father continued, “And the heart.” He burrowed his head deeper into the pillow. “But then you chose your path, and it seemed fair to let you see it through.”
Ark couldn’t help but smile. “You mean my path as a ‘glorified collector of junk?’”
A faint smile curved on Kassenor’s lips. Another beat of silence passed. “Did your witch friend tell you that I am ill?” The choice of word was deliberate, and Ark heard the test in it.
“My Chosen,” he corrected. “And no, not precisely.”
Kassenor gave a faint nod, though his gaze had already drifted, as if it took immense energy to keep himself awake. “I thought she might have,” he murmured. “She strikes me . . . as someone who sees more than she lets on.”
Ark didn’t refute that. His father’s lashes lowered. His breathing slowed. The line of his jaw relaxed.
He was asleep within seconds.
Ark stayed where he was, watching him. Years of distance, now reduced to this quiet shape beneath the bedding. He stood and pulled the blanket up a little higher.
His mother took her place beside the bed. Ark left the room. A few steps down the corridor, he leaned back against the wall, his head resting against the cool stone as he let out a long breath.
He pulled out his phone. His thumb hovered over Oromon’s name.
How could he tell his brother that the father they’d both spent years resenting was dying?
He pressed ‘call’. Oromon answered on the second ring.
“Come home,” Ark said, his hand over his eyes. “It’s Father.”