I watched Silven Dorne watching me, and it struck me that this was the first time all night I felt genuinely seen—not just glanced at, or measured as a problem to be solved, but actually seen. He didn't blink. He didn't flinch. He didn't move for a weapon.
I could practically hear Mordrek's voice in my head: Careful, Dante. He doesn't scare because he knows the price of fear.
I shifted just enough to stay balanced, one boot heel digging into the dirt of the path. The forest around us was so quiet I could hear the horse breathing, hear the lantern's flame gutter in the wind. The guards were at a polite distance, feigning disinterest but with their hands resting on sword hilts. They wouldn't move unless he ordered them to.
Silven finally spoke, voice low and even, the sort of tone you'd use to explain to a child why you were burning down their house.
"So," he said. "You have my attention. That is... difficult to achieve. Congratulations."
I tilted my head.
