Taviel had lingered.
Even after his father moved further down the corridor with Governor Halbrecht's entourage barking out numbers and production metrics, the boy had drifted back toward Lionel's station—hands tucked behind his back, eyes flicking between workers as if observing some low-born ritual through a fogged lens.
Lionel hadn't lifted his head.
The heat pressed against the back of his neck like punishment, fingers still deep in the sorting bin, gravel biting into the web of his palm.
"You don't speak much," Taviel said eventually, tone somewhere between boredom and mild authority.
Lionel didn't stop.
Didn't answer.
Taviel took a half-step closer, boots barely crunching the dust.
"You just sort rocks all day?"
Lionel stacked one stone atop another, adjusted the weight, reset the bin.
Taviel huffed lightly. "Do you even know who I am?"
Lionel didn't look up.
But his voice did.
"You should leave."
Taviel blinked. "Why?"
