Outside, on another ledge of the mountain, Veer finally stirred.
He blinked awake to the dim light of his room, muscles heavy from the storm and the flight. His arms ached. His back ached. His head throbbed faintly where a scratch ran along his scalp. He stretched once, ready to flop back down and sleep again.
Footsteps.
A lot of them.
Veer froze, then pushed himself upright, listening. Boots on stone. More than five. More than ten. Coming straight toward his cave.
And in the middle of it, a tread he knew too well—heavy, impatient, used to being followed.
"Oh, no," Veer muttered. "Not now."
He scrambled to sit properly just as the door curtain was shoved aside.
His father walked in first. Behind him spilled elders, uncles, senior warriors—almost twenty vultures crowding into his space, feathers and robes and serious faces filling the room.
Veer stared, dumbfounded.
"...Good morning, Dad," he said flatly. "What are you doing here?"
