“Why dost thou hesitate? Art thou not meant to save her?” asked the Emperor to his son.

  Biting his lips until they bled and staring at his father with a dark glare, Owen was incapable of moving; his body trembled slightly from both anger and fear.

  The Emperor pressed the blade harder against his hostage’s skin, nicking her slightly, letting a drop of blood fall.

  “Is that all? Owen, didst thou not foresee this situation? I thought thee better prepared…”

  “You… knew? Why let me get this far if you knew?”

  Gradually, the boy realized that this situation was no coincidence.

  “Thou shalt know… if thou canst manage to save her.”

  “And HOW am I supposed to do that?!” Owen shouted, losing his composure.

  “Thou dost stray, Owen.”

  The Emperor tightened his grip, increasing the pressure of the blade against the hostage’s throat.

  “Must I truly tell thee everything? What dost thou fear most in this moment: to lose her, or to fail? Didst thou not say thou wast ready for anything?”

  Owen’s mind raced. He scanned the room, searching for a way out—but saw none. He was cornered, his father blocking the doors, holding his mother’s life in his hands.

  If he attacked head-on, he would cut her throat before Owen could reach her. The two guards accompanying his father were incapacitated, too weak to intervene. Had he commanded an army, perhaps he might have had a chance… but he could not control so many at once. His body was already faltering.

  The air was icy, and the silence between each word oppressive. Yet Owen’s body burned—from exhaustion, anger, and fear. With each passing second, his eyes shone brighter, his face twisted in paradoxical expressions. The pressure he endured was unbearable.

  “Owen, look upon me. In the eyes,” said the Emperor at last, after a long moment of observation.

  Owen slowly raised his gaze. Though he had looked at his father before, he had never met his eyes directly. He had been too afraid.

  “Use them. Thy powers. Impose thy will upon me. Force me to release her.”

  Owen shivered. Why was his father doing this? Why treat it as a mere lesson? He could not understand.

  It did not matter; he was right. This was his only option. He had to try, whatever the risk.

  He plunged into the abyss of his father’s gaze and searched his memories as fast and intensely as he could. But a sharp pain seized him; he let out a whimper and clutched his head.

  He forced himself to regain balance, meeting his father’s gaze again. His golden, piercing eyes seemed to read Owen like an open book. The boy felt as though climbing an immense wall without holds.

  But this time, he held firm. He delved into his mind. For several dozen seconds, no one moved or made a sound. Time seemed suspended in near-absolute silence.

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  Then Owen saw it: a memory. The one that might finally allow him to reach the top of the wall—a young woman strikingly like his mother. A chime. That was all he saw, but it was enough. He projected the memory into his father’s mind, strengthening it as best he could.

  The Emperor’s gaze, initially impassive, seemed to waver for a moment. His attention gradually lowered to the girl he still held, the blade pressed to her throat. Then he released his hold, withdrawing his sword, making it vanish.

  A faint sigh echoed.

  He stared at the girl intently, a melancholy light in his eyes. He said nothing, did not smile, but his gaze betrayed sadness and loneliness.

  For the first time, Owen sensed vulnerability in his father. The unyielding Emperor had a weakness—but Owen knew it was only visible because his father allowed it.

  The boy dropped his weapon; it would no longer serve him. He stepped forward slowly, watching his father sit on the floor, delicately holding the sleeping girl in his arms.

  “Thou seest, Owen. All have weaknesses. Even I.”

  Owen felt deep inside that he was no longer a threat. He would no longer harm either himself or his mother.

  “Why did you do all this?”

  “From the beginning, all that thou hast learned, thou didst for her protection. I told thee: the end justifies the means. Thou didst what was needed for her, and thou becamest stronger.”

  Owen remained silent. It was true; he had done all this for her.

  He had believed himself ready for anything—had used every means he deemed necessary to reach his goal, just as his father once had.

  The thought settled heavily in his chest.

  “So… does this mean I am like you?”

  “Of course thou art,” he replied, an enigmatic smile upon his lips.

  Owen’s heart tightened; deep down, he knew he had crossed a line he would have preferred never to cross.

  “Yet it sufficed not. Thy fear did blind thee. Mark this well: inaction never yields salvation,” he concluded.

  The Emperor called a guard, who arrived at a run. Owen recoiled, assuming a defensive stance, fearing all had been for nothing.

  The Emperor rose slowly, still holding the girl, and entrusted her to the guard. But instead of ordering him back to her cell, he said something Owen never imagined:

  “Escort my son and bring her to a healer, in town.”

  The man hesitated, then obeyed. He headed for the door. Astonished, Owen asked:

  “What? You’re letting us go?”

  “That is what thou didst desire, is it not? Thou hast proven thyself worthy, indeed.”

  Owen could hardly believe his ears. His father, so inflexible, was granting him his wish. Stunned, he froze as the guard prepared to leave.

  “Go, ere I reconsider,” said the Emperor.

  He paused, then continued:

  “But ’tis not over, Owen. Thou wilt return, sooner or later, whether to stand at my side or to face me properly this time.”

  The boy looked at him without flinching.

  “Whether thou choosest to forgive me or hate me for what I have done matters little to me. I did what I must, and I would do it again, as many times as needed. Protect her if that be thy will, and grow strong. Farewell, my son.”

  Owen cast one last look at him, then ran toward the entrance doors. The Emperor remained there a moment, without turning. When he heard the doors close, he left.