CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

Ronan’s POV

After the war room incident with the marrowind, everyone went back to their own duties. I tried to avoid taking Lyra to my father as much as possible but the old twat still sent a guard to summon me to his office.

He never gives up.

The last time I stepped foot in my father’s off je, I was seventeen and bleeding from a cut over my brow—courtesy of one of his many “lessons in discipline.” The stone walls still held the same suffocating silence, like even the air didn’t dare speak without permission. Every painting was a stern portrait, and the curtains were dark enough to drain the sunlight of its will to shine. Just like Aldric himself.

Now, ten years later, the old bastard had the nerve to summon me like some errand boy. I should’ve ignored him. But curiosity—and maybe a twisted sense of amusement—brought me to his door.

I shoved the massive oak open without knocking, because formality between us died the day he broke my ribs and told me it was "character development."

Al