The white glare of the gate faded into the cool air of the upper city outpost.

Mana hum bled into the walls, then quieted as the stabilizers dimmed behind them.

Two lines of uniformed personnel waited just beyond the platform—straight-backed, crisp in their ceremonial blacks, the sigils of the Elford crest stitched in silver across their chests.

As soon as Dominic stepped forward, they bowed in unison.

"Master Elford," the lead officer intoned, voice steady, deep enough to carry over the echo of boots on polished stone.

Then, their gazes shifted to Damien. The movements weren't as deep this time, but the respect was still there— practiced, automatic.

"Young Master," they said together, the words clipped, precise.

Damien caught the faintest flicker of curiosity in one or two pairs of eyes—people trying not to stare at the fact that he was walking unaided, whole, and very much alive after fifteen hours in the Cradle. He let it roll past him without a word.

The lead officer straightened, stepping forward with a slate tucked under one arm. "We've been receiving repeated calls from the Mistress, sir," he said, directing the report to Dominic. "She's made several attempts in the past hour. The urgency of her tone suggested…" He hesitated. "…that we should inform you immediately upon arrival."

Damien's gaze cut sideways—quick, sharp.

There it was.

The smallest tremor in Dominic's eyes. Not fear—not exactly—but the kind of guarded shift that said he'd just been reminded of something more dangerous than any ruin or colossus.

Dominic's jaw flexed once. His nod was slow, deliberate. "Understood."

Damien didn't need the System to tell him why. They'd been in Kael's post—a location without traceable channels, sealed by design. No calls in, no calls out. That meant Vivienne—Dominic's wife—had been cut off entirely. And Vivienne Elford was not the type of woman to accept silence without turning it into a weapon.

Dominic's silence stretched for half a breath too long.

It wasn't hesitation in the battlefield sense—he didn't stall, didn't weigh angles or threats. This was something subtler. Older.

When it concerned Damien, Vivienne's patience shortened to a razor's edge. She'd already been… sharp when they left for the Cradle—her voice tight, questions layered under questions, each one cutting closer to accusation. Dominic had fielded it with the same calm he used for negotiations and duels, but even then, he'd felt the heat building beneath her tone.

And now?

Now he'd gone off the grid. No word. No message. Not even a hint of their survival until this moment.

He could already hear it. That quiet, measured fury of hers—more dangerous than shouting, because it meant she'd thought through exactly how she'd take him apart.

His jaw flexed again, barely perceptible, as they moved toward the arched exit.

He understood her. That was the problem.

He understood why her temper burned hotter when Damien was involved—why the thought of their son in danger shifted her from stateswoman to storm in a heartbeat. And because he understood, the edge of her anger didn't soften in his mind. It sharpened.

It wasn't the fear of a man cowed by his wife. It was the awareness of a force he couldn't counter with logic or status—only endure.

What could he do?

Nothing.

Swallow it. Face it.

And pray the storm broke quick.

Dominic's steps stayed even, the weight of command still in his stride. But Damien caught it—the fractional tightening around his eyes, the micro-shift in his breathing. Small signs, invisible to anyone who hadn't grown up learning how to read him.

'So,' Damien thought, the faintest curl of amusement in his mind, 'even Father bleeds somewhere.'

The glass doors of the outpost slid open, spilling them into the chill of the upper city's night air.

A black sedan waited at the curb, its surface polished enough to catch the reflections of the streetlamps in perfect streaks. The driver stepped out, bowing quickly before opening the rear door.

Dominic got in first. Damien followed, sliding into the leather seat opposite his father. The door shut with a soft, expensive thud.

The moment the car pulled away, Dominic reached into his coat, pulling out a sleek comms device. No hesitation this time—just the grim inevitability of a man walking onto a dueling stage he couldn't refuse.

He keyed the call.

The screen blinked twice before Vivienne's face filled it.

"Dominic."

Not a question. Not a greeting. Just his name—sharp enough to cut glass.

"Vivienne," he said evenly.

Her eyes narrowed. "Do you know what time it is?"

"Yes," Dominic said.

"Do you know how many calls I made?"

"Yes."

"And do you know why I made them?"

"Yes."

There was a beat of silence, the kind where you could almost hear the air being loaded into the next volley.

The silence on the call wasn't dead. It was loaded—poised.

Dominic held her gaze across the screen. "His core wasn't stable enough to withstand transfer. We couldn't use the gate until it was. That's why it took this long."

Vivienne's expression didn't shift right away. No anger. No relief. Just sharp stillness. Calculating.

Then, finally, she spoke.

"…Then why did you not inform me?"

Dominic didn't flinch. "That location—Kael's post—is sealed. External communications are blocked by design. It's not optional. Nothing goes out."

Vivienne's eyes narrowed a fraction. "But you had access to the Spatial Gate. You could have left. Informed me yourself."

There it was.

Dominic didn't answer immediately.

Because she was right.

He could have.

He could have stepped through that gate, spent five minutes on a secure line, sent a message—even a brief one—and come back before Damien's core hit ten percent saturation. There was no system protocol preventing it. No danger in doing so. Only time. And he hadn't.

Not once had the thought occurred to him.

He hadn't been preoccupied with safety logistics or crisis fallout. No, he'd been too caught up—talking with Kael, digging through half-lost mythologies, comparing fragments of impossible knowledge. Watching Damien stabilize wasn't just a matter of safety—it had been fascinating. Consuming.

And Vivienne knew it.

She didn't need to say it.

Her silence did more damage than raised voices ever could.

Dominic's jaw clenched, the edges of his composure shifting almost imperceptibly. A man who'd walked battlefields and courtrooms without blinking—but still, somehow, had no armor thick enough to blunt the weight of this.

"I didn't think about it," he said finally. Honest. Measured. Undefended.

Vivienne's eyes flickered—not with fury, but something quieter. More dangerous.

Disappointment.

A blade she didn't even need to sharpen. It came forged into her breath.

"I see."

No yelling. No condemnation.

Just those two words.

He could've weathered a hundred accusations more easily than that.

From the side, Damien watched with a faint slant to his mouth. Not mocking. Just observant. Learning. This was power too—another kind of duel. His mother wielded precision the way his father wielded presence.

Dominic tried to speak again, but Vivienne cut in—softly.

"Is he safe now?"

Dominic nodded. "Yes."

"And stable?"

"Yes."

The breath she took was audible, long and slow. Then she straightened slightly, the steel returning to her posture.

Vivienne's silence held a moment longer, then her tone shifted—still sharp, but no longer aimed like a blade.

"Put him on."

Dominic blinked. "You want—"

"I want to hear my son's voice," she said, enunciating each word with deliberate clarity. "Now."

There was no room for debate.

Dominic didn't argue. He just turned, the device already extending toward Damien.

"She wants to hear your voice," Dominic said, wryness curling faint at the edge of his voice.

Damien took the comm slowly, studying his father's expression as he did—measuring the flicker of discomfort behind the mask of composure. Then he looked at the screen.

His mother's face filled it.

"Mother."

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