Veylan was there. Leaning against the wall. Arms crossed. The scar catching the dim light.
"He's inside," Veylan said. "With Orvyn."
"I know."
"He asked for you."
"I know."
"He's angry."
"I assumed."
Veylan's eyes held mine. The flat brown gaze that I'd learned to read over weeks of training — the gaze that concealed precisely calibrated care behind professionally maintained indifference.
"I'll be outside the door," he said. "If he threatens you — if he does anything that crosses the line — I intervene. Orvyn has authorized protective measures."
"Protective measures against a Monarch?"
"Orvyn is Transcendent. I'm peak Warden. And you're holding a Mythic weapon. The math isn't as lopsided as you think."
I looked at him. The combat instructor. The mentor. The man who'd said "I'm tired of attending funerals" and meant it with every scar on his body.
"Thank you, Veylan."
"Don't thank me. Go in there and do what you do best."
"Which is?"
