Kael's POV
The silence in their room was loud enough to drown him.
Opal was gone. He'd heard her footsteps fade down the hallway. He hadn't followed. Couldn't. Not with the weight still pressing against his chest like someone had slammed a stone tablet down on his ribs.
His hands rested on the edge of the dresser, knuckles white.
He looked up at the mirror.
The man who stared back?
Too much of Rowen in the jaw.
Too much of Rowen in the eyes.
And tonight, for a moment—when Opal had demanded the truth, and he'd snapped in defense—he'd heard his father's voice in his own.
Kael turned away from the mirror.
He couldn't look at himself right now.
Instead, the memory surged.
Uninvited.
Unrelenting.
He was eighteen. Tall, stronger than he'd ever been, full of that reckless kind of confidence that only came from winning too many fights and losing too little sleep.
And he still respected his father.
Back then, Kael didn't question Rowen. He didn't dare.
