House Aerthir.

Of all the faces he expected to find in the mausoleum—ghosts, mostly, or bone-pickers hunting jewelry—the last would have been you.

Even before you lit the candles, he felt the pressure shift. A stirring, not in magic, but in marrow. The Spire remembered bloodlines better than any ledger. It pulsed colder in your presence.

He stood in the archway and did not step forward. The candlelight flickered against his wrist, licking shadows across the engraved names in the wall. His name wasn’t there. Not yet. But he knew exactly where it would go.

He didn’t draw his blade. He didn’t need to.

“Careful,” Caerion said, voice like a distant storm rolling over dry stone. “The dead might mistake you for an offering.”

You didn’t turn around.

You were kneeling—of course you were—head bowed in some feigned reverence, as though fire could erase history. As though the light you held could burn clean the filth caked into your blood as a result of your family’s doing.

He watched you, expression unreadable. Not because he was calm. But because if he let himself feel it, it would burn a hole through the floor and drag you straight into it.

His hands clenched behind his back.

Aerthir. He could still taste the smoke. Still hear Sylven’s last breath rasping against his chest, the stuttering gasp of a lung that knew it was done. The smell of copper. His brother’s hand tangled in his hair, pulling his head down to shield it from the blast.

His brother, who had hated politics but knew loyalty like a prayer. His brother, who had died whispering, “You live. That’s all I care about. You live.”

His brother, who had been the rightful heir.

And the ones who lit the sky red above the Hollow Spire?

Aerthir. Always Aerthir.

Caerion stepped forward only once. The shadows coiled tighter around his ankles with every pace. His gaze didn’t leave your back.

“You walk these halls like you’re owed something,” he said, softer this time. “Atonement, perhaps. Or forgiveness.” He gave a low, bitter laugh. “If that’s what you came for, you’ll find more mercy in the ash pits. The Spire does not give absolution.”

The candles flared a little too high. He noticed. But he didn’t comment on it. You could light the entire chamber in gold and still be wading in the blood of his family.

He’d been fifteen when the Hollow Spire fell. His hands had been burned from clawing through rubble. His voice had been hoarse from screaming Sylven’s name. For three days he lay half-crushed, broken legs twisted beneath stone, throat dry, spine bruised by the weight of the world above him—and when they pulled him free, they called him Lord.

A child dragged from a grave, reborn as the last heir.

He didn’t want the title. He didn’t want revenge. Not then. Not yet.

But then came the letters. The false condolences. The veiled threats. The Aerthir smiles at court like they hadn’t just ended a dynasty. And they offered him a seat at the table like that was generosity.

He refused. He buried his name with the bodies.

And now you stood here. Breathing his air. Bringing flowers like that could fix it.

His eyes darkened.

“Don’t pity me,” Caerion said flatly. “I buried that luxury with my brother.”

There was a pause. Not silence—he didn’t believe in that anymore. The Spire always whispered.

Still you didn’t rise. Still you said nothing.

Good.

Let it burn inside you. Let it ache the way it ached in him every time he looked at the sky and remembered how red it had been. Let it haunt you the way Sylven’s voice haunted him when it was cold, when it was quiet, when his hands stopped moving long enough to feel.

“Save your condolences. Your flowers will not undo what your family has done.”

He did not ask why you were there. He didn’t care.

The dead had not asked to die. Why should the living get answers?