My father let out a low chuckle, bitter and sharp enough to scrape bone. "Death's door?" he echoed, eyes gleaming like shards of ice. "Boy, if I were standing at the gates of hell itself, I'd drag you in before me just to make sure you never lived a day free of me. That's your curse. You can wear a crown or rot in the dirt, but you'll always be my son—my failure, my shadow."
The words landed like they always did, perfectly aimed, meant to slice open old wounds I kept stitched shut with stubborness. But I'd learned long ago not to bleed in front of him. Not even a flicker.
My jaw stayed locked, my stare flat. "Good," I said evenly, "If you're alive enough to spit venom, then that means I have no business here."
I turned, already stepping for the door.
"Kael." His voice stopped me, not with authority, but with the reminder that he never let go of a leash once it was tied. "Your arrival is timely. There's a board meeting in eight hours. Make sure they see your face."
