I stand outside the heavy oak door, my bandaged fingers tracing the edge of my sleeve. The fabric is soft, too soft. Nothing like the rough shirts I’ve worn for years.
My heart thuds steadily, a quiet drum against my ribs. 'This is different,' I remind myself. 'They pulled you out of the dungeon. They aren’t my father.' But the words feel thin like smoke.
A deep voice calls from inside. “Enter.”
I push the door open. Caius Voss sits behind a wide mahogany desk in what looks like a study. Sunlight slants through tall windows, catching on the sharp lines of his face. Papers are arranged in precise stacks before him. He doesn’t smile, he never does.
“Ayla. Sit.”
I cross the room on silent feet and lower myself into the chair opposite him feeling the leather creak under me. My forehead s
