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“I can, he is, and I intend to. Stay with your mother.”

After unbolting their front door and opening it, Detraeus stepped through and out into the encroaching night. His mind churned as he went, his thoughts a tempest of conflicting emotions. This, of all things, was how Seren chose to continue clawing her way into his life. Not through him, but his child. The thought infuriated him, itching beneath his skin.

And this was his fault.

He had let his children stray too far. Not watched them closely enough. Not been there enough, strict enough, careful enough to know that this had been occurring. He should never have let either of them spend so much time unsupervised, so young.

What irked him more, however, beneath the anger, the guilt, and self-criticisms, was confusion. Hurt. Uncertainty. Where had he gone so wrong — beyond not noticing or taking closer care — that his daughter had strayed so far she no longer thought she could trust him until it came to this?

Detraeus moved stiffly through the process of readying his hastar, leading her from her stall, brushing her quickly down and saddling her for the trip. It would not need to be long, since he had no intention of staying once his work was through, but the motions themselves were mechanical, most of his attention elsewhere — continually tripping back to his daughter. His daughter. Already armed with the basics — a much more minimal showing than had once been his custom — Detraeus moved briefly about the stables after finishing with his mount, strapping into place a more full arrange of weapons: more blades for his belt, chest, and in his boot; a full-length sword, and an additional store of arrows.

He did not intend for it to take much. But there was no harm in arming oneself properly.

Upon exiting, however, he stilled, freezing in place and whipping Avarice into a drawn position almost simultaneous with the thhkk of an arrow into the stable side, his mind already leaping to conclusions. The thing was here, ahead of him, trying to take from him his family early, or raiders—

Instead, his gaze locked on his daughter, and his eyelids narrowed to slits. He remained as he was, bow drawn and hovering at the ready, for a long pause before lowering it with grit teeth and reholstering her at his back. After, he stalked forward. When he reached his daughter, he caught her chin in his grip, too-tight and barely shaking.

“You. Stupid. And precious child…” He shook his head. “You do not understand. And you cannot understand, and I will see to it that you do not. The things that they are…and all that their goddess has made them capable of have no place near my family…you will be luckier to have him dead than anything else. Whether you see it or not.” He dropped his grip. “Stay out of my path. And never do that again…”

He turned, taking the few steps back towards his hastar and stretching his wings in preparation to mount.

“I NEARLY DID!”

The snarl of an admittance came out cut and harsh in the bitter night air, Detraeus spinning back towards his daughter as he said it, but not releasing the reins of his hastar.

“I nearly did…he lied to me. He hid his bloodline from me, and when—” Detraeus’ teeth grit, his shoulders bunching to the point he needed to roll them, and he shook his head. “I found out, in the arena we fought in together…I shot at him. I cut at him. I drove him down and I held him at the point of a blade…but cursed, poisoned blood or not, I owed him…my life, my…sanity. He was my only friend, and I would have killed him if he had given me an ounce more reason to…”

Detraeus frowned, hesitating a long moment before continuing.

“I told him that if I ever saw him again I would finish the job, and I left to Soudul. Do you know what the fool did?” Detraeus mounted. “He followed me. And when I saw him I shot at him again. I shot close enough to slice his ear and he stood there to drop his weapons. Your uncle…is no ordinary man. He carries in him, buried, the twisted magics that he inherited from his mother…but his father’s blood, Soudana’s blood, is stronger in him than bird magics. He is a unique case. Your boy…” Detraeus shook his head. “I will take no risks. You will be safe here, with your mother and your brother, and you will be safer still by the time I return.”

Detraeus stiffened, his back straightening to a rigid line atop his mount at his daughter’s words and gut lurching. His mind hooked, catching and tripping up on the single, pivotal accusation.

‘I hate you!’

And the words rang with him, piercing and sticking like a messily buried arrow. He found that was all he heard, and all he could think on until Akara was being ushered away. His mate’s voice seemed to fight its way through a fog at first, his vision blurred and throat uncooperative. Through it, though, he forced his head to turn. Made himself focus. Araceli’s words were a cool breeze, rippling over burnt skin left out too long in the desert and he blinked to eye her, working until he was really looking at her and seeing her.

Her words took longer still to register.

When they finally did, he frowned. He shook his head, but the gesture felt weak. Empty, in some way, of something there before, as though the argument with his daughter had drained the fight he had, for now. Eventually, after holding still too long atop his mount — until the muscles in his hands holding the reins felt stiff and cold — he forced his grip to relax and grunted, gaze shifting out over the dark mountains.

“How does it come to this…? I do not feel I can win. If I protect my daughter, I risk…losing her heart, losing everything. But if I leave her to this boy and he hurts her…”

Detraeus frowned. Stiff. Conflicted. The n** of approaching winter in the air bit at his skin, but at length, he shook his head.

“No…” he said. “No, I do not believe that necessarily he would have. They are not a predictable people, and we do not know. We know nothing of what he has done to her, only that she has been convinced that he cares for her. She is not safe…and her being with child is not the worst thing. The child is, perhaps, the most innocent of all parties involved…”

Detraeus wanted to have the strength to turn away. To leave, now, while he still knew with conviction what must be done. But Akara’s words still ate at him, ringing in the spaces of his mind that he could not wipe clear. And the night was cold, his chest torn, and the mountain winds dark and bitter. Selfishly, he wanted to do as his mate bid. He wanted to be nearer to her and her comforting presence than the anger and hurt that the rest of the situation brought to him. Wanted to hold her to him and hear her speak, even if they were unlikely to agree.

At length, he was weak. What was one night, in the great tapestry of fate?

His boots hit the partially frosted earth with a muted crunch as he dismounted. “I will ride tomorrow. I wish only that she knew what I was protecting her from…”