She stopped in the middle of his room. Turned to face him.
"Tell me the truth," she said. "Not the version you've been rehearsing. Not the version that makes you look brave or noble or in control. The real thing. Why are you doing this? Why are you walking into your brother's mind when you know — you know — he's spent twenty years learning how to destroy you from the inside?"
Caldan closed the door. Leaned against it. Looked at her.
He could lie. He was good at lying. He'd been lying to courts and councils and kings since he was old enough to speak. He could give her the noble answer — duty, honor, the defense of the realm. He could give her the strategic answer — the twin bond, the only weapon, the logical necessity.
But she'd asked for the truth. And she was standing barefoot in his bedroom with shadows under her eyes and fire in her gaze, and he was so tired of lying that the truth felt like the only thing left.
"Because if I don't," he said, "he'll take you."
