She moved toward the door. Stopped.
"One more thing." She didn't turn around. Her voice was quiet — the quietest Caldan had ever heard it. "Dhaelon is my grandson. I held him the day he was born. I watched him laugh and play and draw pictures of dragons in the dirt of the courtyard, before the voices started, before the madness took root."
A pause.
"If there is a way to stop him without killing him, find it. If there is not—" Her shoulders straightened. "Do what must be done. And do not expect me to forgive you for it."
She left.
The door closed.
The war council dissolved in stages. Roen was first — slamming out of the room with the restless fury of a man who had been told to wait when every instinct screamed to charge. Vaeren followed, unhurried, his book tucked under his arm, his gold eyes distant with calculation.
Meyrn stood. Looked at Auren. Looked at Caldan.
