“She attempted a severing rite,” I say.
Ron stills. Not shocked. Focused.
“She tried to cut the bond?” he asks carefully.
“She claims she was recalibrating it.”
“And what did you do?”
“I removed myself as a variable.”
He stares at me as though I have announced I intend to abdicate and join a monastery.
“You distanced yourself,” he says slowly.
“Yes.”
His jaw tightens. He walks closer, studying me not as a commander studies a superior, but as a brother studies someone he refuses to lose.
“You consummated the bond,” he says.
“Yes.”
“And then when she panicked under political pressure, you decided the solution was to disappear. Don't think I don't know everything. Rumors fly even to the battlefield.”
“I decided to protect her from Velcryn.”
Ron’s laugh is sharp and incredulous.
“You protected her,” he repeats. “By proving every Nytherian elder right about Vrakken emotional coldness.”
“That is not?—”
“It is exactly that,” he cuts in. “You don’t get to pretend this is strategy. This is fear dressed up in doctrine.”
My temper sparks, but it does not ignite. Not with him.
“She is leverage,” I say evenly. “If the Matrons move against me?—”
“They will move whether you hide in this tower or not,” Ron interrupts. “You think stripping your title becomes easier if you look unstable and mate-starved?”
The word lands harder than it should. I feel the bond twist painfully in my chest, as if in agreement. Ron’s expression shifts, some of the edge easing.
“I met her,” he says more quietly.
I say nothing.
“She doesn’t flinch when she talks about you,” he continues. “That alone is rare. And she doesn’t soften you. She sharpens you.”
His amber eyes lock onto mine.
“You’re different,” he says.
“Different is dangerous.”
“Different is alive.”
Silence settles between us. He steps closer, lowering his voice.
