Conversation

His grandfather's voice cut through the room, deep and commanding—a voice that could turn a quiet room into a war council. It wasn't just the sound; it was the way he spoke, the weight behind every word. Elijah had heard voices like this before—voices that didn't ask but ordered, that didn't suggest but declared. The kind of voice that pulled respect and, when needed, fear. The aura of a commander, not seen but felt, like a pressure on the skin.

"Elena, I understand you feel the injustice, but we had no choice. We were bound. You chose Adam over your family. But come back—bring my grandchildren."

Elijah's mother stood still, an unbending reed in a storm. Her laugh was sharp, more a weapon than a sound, and it slashed through his words. She maintained her dignity, her posture perfect, but Elijah could see it—the tightness in her jaw, the subtle flare of her nostrils. She was a dam holding back a flood.

"No. You chose the nobility and its games. Adam was a chance to change things, and you squandered it. You let them toss him away."

Her words hung in the air, heavy with accusation and the weight of a truth she wasn't fully revealing. Elijah felt a shiver of curiosity, his young mind straining to pull threads together. What had happened to Adam? And why did his mother's words feel like she was speaking through clenched teeth?

"If it wasn't for Adam, tens of thousands would have died," she continued, her voice gaining strength. "But no, you have no room for a commoner to rise above you. This is why the Empire wastes while the Republic flourishes. Adam wouldn't submit to your rules."

The visitor's face hardened, red blooming under his fair skin, his knuckles whitening as his hands clenched at his sides. He looked like a dam about to burst, a storm cloud barely holding back the lightning.

"And what would you have me do?" His voice was lower now, but it carried an edge that could cut. "Resist a high noble? The Emperor? They would kill us!"

Elena's expression didn't change, but the air around her seemed to cool. Her lips curved into a thin, dangerous line.

"You wested us, you left us all alone, we could have done something."

She had actually said an English word there… wested. Elijah's brows furrowed in confusion. Did I mishear?

The old man's face twisted, the smooth, commanding facade cracking. His blue eyes, usually like polished glass, were now shards—cold, cutting. His cheeks flushed, a red creeping up his neck, and his lips pulled back, baring teeth like a cornered wolf.

"Watch your tongue…" His voice dropped, words sharpened to a point.

Elena remained still, unblinking. She was a statue, all marble and ice, but Elijah could feel it—her anger, molten and slow, bubbling beneath the surface.

"You let them seal my cultivation," she said, every word a stone in the quiet. "You let them cut off your grandson's hand."

The room seemed to hold its breath. The silence wasn't empty—it was tight, coiled, ready to spring. Elijah nestled deeper into Abel's arms, his tiny fingers clutching the fabric of the old man's shirt. His eyes stayed wide, unblinking, drinking in every word, every gesture.

"We can make it right," his grandfather said, his voice slipping into a softer, almost persuasive tone. "A prosthetic. We can appeal to the Emperor. You've done meritorious service—there are ways."

"No, I will not." His mother's response was as cold as it was firm.

His grandfather's jaw tightened, the muscle in his cheek flexing under his skin. "What? The Collectors then? Trash of the universe."

Elijah's mother didn't respond immediately. Her silence was louder than any retort. Finally, she spoke, her voice steady. "Yes, the Collectors."

For a moment, the old man looked… tired. Frustration carved lines into his face, and behind the stern mask, Elijah caught a glimpse of something worn down, something old and brittle.

They stood like statues, silence stretching between them. The weight of it settled into the room, thick and heavy, as if neither wanted to be the first to break.

Finally, his grandfather exhaled, the sound more than just breath—it was a surrender. "Call to the shop… they can outfit the ship with a few select things. Before you leave, let your mother see her grandchildren."

Elijah's mother seemed to relax at the mention of "the shop," a hint of relief in her eyes. But when his grandfather brought up his grandmother, all warmth vanished from Elena's demeanor.

"Please." His grandfather doubled down, the single word hanging in the air.

Her lips pressed into a thin line. "I will not return to the estate," she said, the words clipped, as if each syllable cost her something.

His grandfather's shoulders rose, then fell—an acknowledgment, or maybe just exhaustion. "Your favorite restaurant then."

A pause. A consideration. Finally, his mother nodded. "Fine. I'll be bringing Abel."

His grandfather's face twisted, a flash of distaste breaking through his control. His gaze finally shifted to Elijah, and he took a step forward, peering down at him.

The old man's blue eyes narrowed, studying Elijah as if searching for something hidden beneath the chubby cheeks and wide, innocent eyes. Elijah could see him looking at his missing hand, the subtle twitch of his lips betraying more than pity—regret, perhaps, or maybe just discomfort.

"He looks like Adam."

Elijah stared back, his tiny fingers still clutching Abel's shirt. His thoughts spun, fast and sharp. His grandfather was an enigma—layers of power and weakness, authority and fear. The man had let his daughter's cultivation be sealed, had allowed his grandson's arm to be cut off.

But Elijah couldn't afford to write him off just yet. There could be more behind it… buuuutttt…

In Elijah's opinion, there was no right or wrong, only the strength of your fist. Morality was what the strongest said it was. That was a truth Elijah had learned the hard way. Wes had always believed in leaving the weak be—Give them the resources they needed, create a system where ability isn't a threat, and don't be a dick. It was a simple philosophy, built on survival and a grudging kind of kindness.

But this old man… he didn't fit. He had power, but how had he used it? He had influence, but had he truly been powerless when it mattered? Or had he simply chosen the path of least resistance?

Elijah's lips pressed into a tiny pout, his mind turning over the pieces of the puzzle. There was more to this story, and until he had all the facts, he'd reserve his judgment.

But still, a small voice in the back of his mind whispered:

What a weak-ass bitch.