Asher's rooms were too quiet for a man of his power.
They noticed it the moment they pushed the door open — no pressure, no weight, none of the subtle force powerful beings usually let slip into the air.
He contained it all, drew it inward so thoroughly that at first glance, he looked like nothing more than an ordinary man sitting by a window.
Then he turned.
The illusion lasted exactly that long.
He smiled when he saw them.
Arazee walked past him with her eyes fixed just above his head. Not at the ceiling—just the precise distance that said I see you and decided you're not worthy to be called father.
Aroc's wing stayed locked against his back, arms clasped behind him, posture so formally rigid it read as its own insult.
Astra pressed against a wall near the door, crossed his arms, and looked at his father the way one looks at grass.
None of them spoke.
Asher couldn't even bring himself to be angry, even if he wanted to.
"Say what you need," Arken broke the silence.
