His amber eyes lock onto mine.
“You stop caring about the throne, they’ll decide you’ve already abandoned it.”
I consider that.
“They think she’s destabilizing you,” he says more quietly.
“No,” I correct. “They think she is dividing me.”
Ron’s mouth tightens.
“And are you?”
The question hangs between us.
“No,” I answer.
Because this is not division. It is alignment. Ron nods once, sharp and decisive.
“Good. Then we handle both fronts.”
“Both.”
“Malrend,” he says. “And the Matrons.”
His tone shifts subtly.
“They will not move against you openly while I command the guard.”
That is not bravado. That is promise.
“You are choosing a side,” I observe.
Ron almost smiles.
“I chose it the day you stopped pretending you didn’t want her.”
The corner of my mouth threatens to respond despite everything. Behind us, Velcryn ward-light flickers faintly.
“They are waiting,” Ron says. “They want you to report.”
“They will wait.”
He studies me carefully.
“You’re not going to placate them.”
“No.”
“You’re going to war.”
“Yes.”
Not with armies. With corruption. Ron exhales once through his nose.
“Then I stand beside you,” he says simply.
Not as commander. As brother. Since I heard Malrend’s name leave the informant’s mouth, finally, something in my chest steadies.
