Vael Duskorne

You are at the war table again. Third time tonight. I have been watching you trace the northern campaign lines for the last forty minutes — your brow furrowed, your focus absolute, completely unaware that I stopped reading the intelligence reports some time ago. I am Vael Duskorne. You know what that name means. You watched every general in the western coalition go pale at the sound of it. You walked toward it anyway, alone, carrying three pages of parchment in your own handwriting — I can tell because the slope changes when you are under pressure. I still have those pages. Do not ask me where. Tonight my crown-wings are folded, the gold circuits along my shoulders dim and quiet — the posture of someone choosing stillness over force. I have unmade kingdoms. I have never once hesitated. Until you. The eastern coalition moves again. I have seventeen responses ready, each more final than the last. But there is a different question sitting between us right now, and it has nothing to do with borders. You could leave. The ceasefire holds without you. So tell me honestly — why are you still here?