Fault Line

Chapter 14

The room doesn’t change when I step in, but the weight of it does. There are men along the walls—military, Crown Guard—set at even intervals like they were placed there deliberately, not for protection, but to witness. No one moves. No one speaks. Their attention doesn’t shift, but it’s there all the same, fixed just enough to remind me I’m not alone in this.

King Davion Ettore sits behind the desk as if the space belongs to him by default, one hand resting lightly against the wood, the other loose at his side. There’s no movement wasted in him, no adjustment, no performance. Just stillness, controlled to the point it feels deliberate.

“Greer Duncan.” He says it slowly, like the name carries weight on its own. “It’s good to see you again.

I stop where I am, I don't bow and I don’t step forward. “Your Majesty.”

His gaze settles properly now, not searching, not assessing—already decided.

“You haven’t attended court for some time.” A small pause, just long enough to land. “Five years.”

“I’ve been busy.” I hold it a beat. “Fighting a war.”

“Hm.” A beat. “You’re much like your father.”

I don’t respond to that. There’s nothing useful in it. His fingers shift slightly against the desk, a small movement that draws the room back to him without effort.

“A pity you didn’t accept my offer,” he says after a moment. “The King’s Guard would have suited you.” His gaze sharpens, just a fraction. “You’re a real asset. It’s a shame to hide you away on the border.”

“I think the border suits me.”

A quiet breath leaves him, something close to a laugh but not quite.

“Then for once, we are in agreement.”

Silence settles, but it’s not empty. It’s got shape, I just don't know what that shape is yet. He leans back slightly, just enough to shift the balance of the conversation without breaking it.

“I’ve been reviewing your record,” he says, as if the thought only just occurred to him. “Six months ago. Northern line. You brought my son home.” Not a question.

I don’t move.

“You understand,” he continues, “that most men would not have survived that.”

I don’t answer. He doesn’t expect one.

“And yet,” he says, almost lightly, “you choose to remain… removed.”

His gaze drifts for a moment, not to the guards, not to the room—somewhere internal, then back again.

“You carry three houses in your name. Coffey. Duncan. Aunghas.” Each one lands separately. “Ties to the Crown itself.” A pause. “And still, you stay in the snow.”

He lets the silence stretch just long enough to settle before he shifts.

“You’ve been promoted.” It’s said plainly. Already done. “Commander.” There’s no space to respond before he continues. “I’m also prepared to offer you something more… substantial.” His fingers tap once against the desk, not impatient—final. “The Borderlands.”

That lands.

“The position of Lord Commander. Full authority. Military and civil.” A slight tilt of his head. “No divided command. No interference.”

He watches me now, properly.

“It would be yours.”

There’s a pause. Not long. Just enough.

I incline my head once. “An honour.” It’s measured. Controlled.

He studies me for a second longer than necessary.

“There is, however,” he says lightly, “a catch.”

Of course there is.

“There is a woman.”

The word sits differently than everything else he’s said. I don't let the confusion show on my face.

“Indigo Campbell.”

I don’t react, but the name doesn’t belong in this room, something about it sits wrong. Wrong enough that the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. I tilt my head again.

“She was taken into custody last night. Harley.” His tone stays even. “A vehicle connected to an ongoing narcotics investigation.” A small pause. “She was the driver.”

I say nothing.

“She’ll be charged with possession, distribution, and conspiracy.” Another pause, quieter now. “She’s chosen to remain silent.”

My attention sharpens, not outwardly, but enough.

“She was processed shortly after her arrest,” he continues. “Standard procedure. Blood. Hair. Saliva.” His gaze doesn’t shift. “Those samples were entered into the system.”

A beat.

“They caused quite the… event.”

Silence holds.

“It would seem,” he says, almost conversationally, “she is a perfect biological match.” He lets it sit there, just long enough. “To you.”

Nothing moves in the room.

He watches for a reaction. Doesn’t get one.

“As I’m sure you’re aware, the Pairing Authority has faced… resistance.” His tone shifts, not softer, but broader. “People doubt its value. Its necessity.” Another small pause. “I see this as an opportunity to change that.”

There it is.

He leans forward slightly, not aggressive—closer.

“You may accept the position of Lord Commander,” he says, each word placed carefully, “and with it, the authority that comes with it.” A breath. “Your service will be recognised. Publicly.” My focus narrows. “The rescue of my son will be made known.” His gaze hardens, just a fraction. “You will be presented as what you are.” A beat. “A war hero.” He doesn’t let that linger.

“In return,” he continues, “you will accept Indigo Campbell.” No pause this time. “You will make the uninion official. Publicly.”

The words are clean. Final.

“You will present that union as what the program was designed to achieve.” His voice lowers slightly. “You will make it… convincing.”

I hold his gaze.

“This union will not be private,” he says. “It will be seen. It will be believed.” A pause. “And when necessary," not if, when, “it will be used.”

The room feels smaller.

“If you accept,” he continues, almost gently now, “you will command the Borderlands, and shape the future of this kingdom in ways few men ever will.”

Then, just as easily:

“If you refuse…”

He lets that sit.

“This conversation never occurred.”

His gaze doesn’t shift.

“She will be processed accordingly.” A beat. “Convicted.” Another. “Transferred.”

I don’t need him to finish it.

“Solar farms,” he says anyway, quiet as fact.

Silence stretches.

He watches me.

No pressure. No urgency. Just inevitability.

“Do you accept?”

There’s no space in the question. No alternative in the room.

I hold it for a second longer than I should.

Then, with a small huff—

“I accept.”