The fire didn't end that night.
It just… spread.
By morning, Virelli City looked like a ghost of itself—smoke clinging to broken glass, streets emptied of voices, power shifting in ways people couldn't yet see.
But I could feel it.
Change always had a sound.
And this one was loud.
I stood in the grand hall of the Virelli estate, where silence wasn't absence—it was discipline.
Perfect.
Controlled.
Expected.
"Report."
My father didn't look up as he spoke.
He never needed to.
Every detail of the night had already reached him. This was just ceremony.
"Five structures destroyed," I said. "Minimal casualties. Reyes was present."
At that, his pen stopped.
A single moment of stillness.
Then—
"Good."
That was it.
No anger.
No fear.
Approval.
Because destruction meant progress in our world.
And Reyes…
Reyes meant war.
"You encountered him," my father continued.
It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
"And?"
I hesitated.
Just for a second.
That was enough.
"Nothing of significance."
A lie.
Smooth.
Practiced.
Perfect.
My father finally looked at me.
Cold eyes.
Sharp.
Evaluating.
"You're lying."
No hesitation.
No emotion.
Just truth.
My spine straightened.
"About what?"
His gaze didn't waver.
"About what he is to you."
The room tightened.
Silence pressed against my skin like a warning.
Because in our world—
Questions like that weren't curiosity.
They were threats.
"I don't understand the question," I said.
"You do."
Another pause.
He stood.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Walking toward me like gravity itself obeyed him.
"Lucien," he said, voice lower now, quieter—but far more dangerous.
"You were not raised to be distracted."
"I am not distracted."
"Then what was it?"
His gaze locked onto mine.
Unyielding.
Unforgiving.
"Why did you hesitate?"
And that was the moment.
The moment everything could break.
Because hesitation…
In our world…
Was weakness.
I held his gaze.
Steady.
Controlled.
But somewhere deep inside—
I saw it again.
The fire.
The city.
Him.
Standing in the flames like he belonged to them.
Watching me like I was the one thing he couldn't predict.
"I didn't hesitate," I said finally.
My father studied me.
Searching.
Measuring.
Then—
A slow nod.
"Good."
He turned away.
"Because if you ever hesitate again…"
He didn't finish the sentence.
He didn't need to.
But I already knew.
And for the first time—
I realized something terrifying.
It wasn't the war that would destroy us.
It was the moment we stopped being able to tell the difference between duty…
and desire.