Serena thought the night had peaked. She was wrong.
She came for a doctor, but left with another crisis. Drakenfell had a way of doing that.
"Where is Dexmon?"
Of all the perfectly reasonable, completely predictable questions a father might ask about his son, this was the one she had somehow not prepared an answer for during the sprint here.
"He's in our chambers."
It wasn't entirely a lie. She didn't know why she said it that way. 'Our chambers' implied things. Comfortable things. The distinction had blurred months ago, and it fell out of her mouth before she could choose a better answer.
"In your chambers."
Tiberon repeated phrases the way a judge read charges: slowly, evenly, and with the clear implication that the person on the receiving end should be very careful about what they said next.
"Yes."
"I mindlinked him twelve minutes ago. He has yet to respond."
