Instead, I step forward.
“You believe removing a title removes my influence?” I ask quietly.
Serida holds my gaze.
“We believe removing a title preserves Velcryn.”
“And if Velcryn requires blindness to survive?” I ask.
“You are overstepping.”
“No,” I correct. “You are.”
My power does not lash outward. It condenses. The shadows beneath the Matrons’ thrones deepen, not as threat, but as reminder. The air grows heavier. Not chaotic. Controlled.
They feel it. All of it. Not divided. Not unstable. Integrated. Stronger.
Ron straightens slightly, not in alarm, in recognition.
“This bond,” I say evenly, “has not weakened me.”
“It has refined me.”
The Velcryn wards tremble.
“You mistake evolution for corruption,” I continue. “And you mistake control for stability.”
Serida’s composure tightens a fraction.
“You stand here without title,” she says. “You stand diminished.”
I hold her gaze.
“I stand unburdened.”
That lands. Because they understand what that means.
No title. No leash. No procedural restraint. Just blood, power and choice.
The shadows pulse once more. The Matrons do not flinch. But they do not breathe easily either.
“You have made your ruling,” I say calmly. “You will find I remain difficult to relocate.”
“You will comply,” Yrelda states.
“I will act,” I reply.
There is a difference. I turn before they dismiss me. That is the part that unsettles them. I do not ask permission to leave. The Velcryn wards hesitate as I cross their threshold. Hesitate.Then part. Behind me, I hear nothing. No command to detain. No order to restrain. Because they understand something now they did not fully calculate. Removing the crown did not make me smaller. It removed what they believed constrained me.
When the tower doors close behind us, Ron exhales slowly.
“Well,” he mutters. “That went poorly.”
I almost smile.
“They are afraid,” he says quietly.
“Yes.”