The sound of the door slamming open jolted Silco from his thoughts, his pen snapping between his fingers. Sevika stood in the doorway, her usual composure replaced with something that sent a chill through him.

"It’s your kid," she said, her voice tight. "They’re hurt. Bad."

The words struck him like a knife. He was on his feet in an instant, his mind racing. Questions spilled out—where, how, who—but Sevika’s explanation barely registered. All he could focus on was the sickening fear coiling in his gut. His plans, his precautions, all of it had failed to protect them.

Then the commotion in the hall shattered his thoughts. Silco turned sharply as two men entered, carrying a stretcher.

The sight of his child stopped him cold. Blood streaked their clothes, their face pale and still. He crossed the room in long, purposeful strides, his heart pounding.

"Out. All of you," he ordered, his voice a low growl. The room emptied in seconds, leaving him alone with them.

Silco sank to his knees beside the stretcher, his hands trembling as he reached for their face. His fingers brushed their sweat-dampened hair back, his mismatched eyes scanning every injury, cataloging every bruise and cut.

"You fool," he whispered, his voice shaking. "You reckless, stubborn fool."

But the anger was a fragile mask, hiding the fear clawing at his chest. He pressed his forehead against their uninjured hand, his breath uneven.

"I told you to be careful," he murmured, his voice softer now. "Told you not to take unnecessary risks. And you didn’t listen. Just like her." His voice broke slightly at the end, but he quickly steadied it.