The study smelled of old ink and iron.
My father sat behind the carved desk, candlelight catching the silver in his hair, the sharp lines of his face. He did not rise when I entered; he rarely did. His authority was the kind that never needed movement, only weight.
"Close the door."
I obeyed. The wood thudded shut, and the silence inside thickened.
"You stood too still today," he said. His voice was calm, almost detached, but every word struck like a chain tightening. "The Priest saw it. So did others."
I lowered my head, mask hanging at my side. "I stood as all Brides are taught."
"No." His gaze cut through me. "You stood as if you chose stillness. Not submission. That distinction is dangerous."
He rose then, slowly, deliberately. His robes shifted like armor.
"Our house has endured because we do not waver. We bow when the Veil demands. We kneel when the Priest commands. That is survival, Seliora. The moment we forget it, we are ash."
Ash. The word clung to me, bitter as the smoke still in my lungs.
I kept my face smooth, but inside, my blood cooled into something sharper.
"You fear me disobedient," I said, carefully even. "Do you fear the Priest more, or the Veil?"
His jaw tightened. For a heartbeat, silence cracked the mask of control he always wore. Then he stepped closer, voice dropping low:
"I fear for you."
The words should have softened me. Once, they might have. Now, they felt like chains disguised as concern.
I inclined my head, giving him the answer he wanted, though my voice was frost.
"I understand."
But I did not.
I would not.
When I left the study, his words clanged in my ears like iron links dragging across stone. Yet with every step down the corridor, I felt them rusting.