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“But so is this. There’s a lot more nobles to help on my priority list.”

“I’ll get to them, I promise.”

Vera’s mouth pursed, her eyes hard. “You can’t drag this out forever. And what of the optics of you working manual labor? You’re supposed to be here, acting like a king, not a common laborer.”

The instinct to defer to Vera sprang from that nebulous place inside him that demanded others knew better than him, the same instinct that had driven him to not question Lore until it was too late and wave goodbye to a family he could have helped if he’d only demanded to stay.

But Vera’s points were valid. Her logic sound. And that’s what made it so hard for him to put one foot in front of the other now, to head towards the courtyard and the gates beyond and travel a path that took him where he wanted to go, rather than where everyone else expected him to be.

“It’s just the afternoon,” Fenrir said, slapping on a smile that usually worked on most. It bounced off Vera like it was made of rubber.

“Fenrir, wait.”

Whether it was instinct or an ingrained sense of discipline, Fenrir froze. Silence followed, polluting the room despite the beautiful spring day waiting beyond the throne room’s narrow windows.

Fenrir breathed through his nose, unable to look at his mother, only able to obey.

“I understand you enjoy helping with the tower,” Vera said more gently than Fenrir thought she was capable of. “But it’s time to take this job seriously, Fenrir. You’ve been hurt. You’ve lost a lot. I’ve been patient. We’ve all been patient. But the Empire needs you to be their king now, not play more games.”

“Is that what you think I’ve been doing?” Fenrir asked quietly. “Playing games?”

From the corner of his eye, Fenrir watched Vera soften, her eyes drifting down, her hands loosening their clench. “It’s what you’ve always done to escape difficult situations; it makes sense you would do it now too.”

And she wasn’t wrong. She really truly wasn’t. He had played games, and maybe—maybe she was right and he still did. But this time…nothing about this was a game to him. It couldn’t be, not with Orpheus’ life on the line.

Fenrir spun around to face her, hand fisted at his side while a stripe of sunlight forged a path between them, fire burning open a chasm that felt as vast as the one Orpheus had closed.

“Why can’t you allow me to use my own judgment, Mum? Why is it you’re always right, and I’m expected to follow along? Why is it that you’re always putting limitations on what I can or cannot do, rather than letting me discover for myself what it is I’m capable of? Or not capable of? Why is it always up to you?”

“Because I’m your mother and I’m looking out for you. I’ve always looked out for you.”

And that was all he needed; that absurd claim that Vera cared slammed everything into place. Fenrir laughed, the sound brittle and caustic.

“I’m going to the tower,” felt so much better to say than: fuck you.

“You can’t do it all, Fenrir!” she called out after him. “You can’t!”

He stormed through the throne room's doors, past guards who leaped away when he swept by them, through the corridor with the ridiculous murals towards the palace’s southern gates. Only once his boots hit the gravel did the tension in his chest release, the pound of his pulse a rhythm in his ears that overshadowed the march of his two guards who’d fallen into step behind him. He walked towards the tower with a purpose he maybe didn’t fully believe in, but needed, to prove to someone—anyone—that he was in control of his own life. His own decisions. That he wasn’t just a weapon to be wielded because he liked to fight, or a king to sit on a throne because he was good at charming people, or a pawn to be played by those who all thought they knew what was best for him.

Except, that’s exactly what I’ve allowed to happen.

The forges were burning hot when Fenrir reached the Scar, the tower rising beyond the treetops into the brewing haze of a late afternoon storm. Blacksmiths and welders parted for him as he followed the line of freshly planted stakes that marked the buried electrical conduit that would power the antenna. It was already halfway up the tower, little black dots scrambling up the beams to guide it while the crane winched it up and up and up, the long needle framed by a wide, domed base that was lighter than it appeared. Fenrir knew, because he’d help repair it.

Mercer intercepted him at the base of a tower where the safety harnesses were kept.

“You goin’ up?” he asked, a little askance.

“Damn right I am.” Fenrir sunk his teeth into a belt buckle and yanked the tail sung. “Don’t try and stop me.”

“I wasn’t,” Mercer said, circling Fenrir to take his clip and lock it into the lead, then checking the knots on his harness. “Bastion’s already up there, he’s got a walkie in case anything goes wrong.”

And then Fenrir was off, scrambling up the tower with a burst of speed, momentum propelling him between each beam, his hand a guide while his legs did most of the work, his line’s slack going taunt every few rungs while the team below tied him off. He barely thought about the climb—each rung he chose, which grip to take. Weeks of working with his left arm had chased the awkwardness away, his arm stronger than it had ever been before, muscles big and small working together to help him climb with an agility he’d feared he’d lost.

By the time he reached the welders and Bastion a grin was plastered across his face. Bastion met him, waving enthusiastically from his place at the mounting platform where the conduit cable sprouted like the head of a carrot from the base they’d spent the last week securing.

“Your majesty, it’s wonderful to see you so well!”

“I’m just Fenrir here.” He swung in close to Bastion and clipped into the railing surrounding the base. “Glad to see you again too, Bastion.”