A quiet, humorless laugh escaped him. The elders did not need to shout or threaten. They only had to speak his father's name, and the old wound opened on its own.
Demian looked at Valerie's face again. She slept peacefully, utterly unaware that her existence had been aligned with a history that ended in death.
He exhaled once more, heavier this time.
"Will I die too," he whispered, "if I let go of my bond with Ivanka?"
The question lingered in the room. There was no answer only the soft, steady sound of Valerie's breathing.
Demian realized something bitter: the elders always spoke of death as if it meant only the loss of power, honor, or position. But he who had watched his mother fade day by day, knew that the death they spoke of was far more expansive than that.
He had already been almost dead, many times over, without anyone noticing.
