The walk back to Sir Armand felt shorter than it should have.
Maybe because my mind wouldn't stay still.
Maybe because every thought I had kept circling the same few names.
Ciara.
The Augur.
Maxx Acorn.
The Northern Baronies.
I found Armand exactly where I'd left him.
Still standing in the corridor.
Still waiting.
The man had apparently taken my instructions literally.
Part of me respected that.
Part of me thought it was deeply unhealthy.
He looked up as I approached.
His posture straightened automatically.
Not fear.
Not quite.
But caution.
The sort of caution someone reserves for unstable explosives.
I stopped a few feet away.
For several seconds neither of us spoke.
Then I asked the first question that came to mind.
"Does Mary know?"
Armand blinked.
The question had clearly surprised him.
"Mary?"
"Your wife."
His expression shifted slightly.
Not much.
Just enough.
"Yes."
I studied him.
"How long?"
A pause.
"Since the day after Fort Knothole."
I nodded slowly.
That made sense.
Of course she knew.
The two of them practically shared a brain.
Keeping a secret like that from Mary Lulamae D'Coolette sounded about as possible as hiding a bonfire under a blanket.
"And she stayed."
It wasn't really a question.
Armand's jaw tightened.
"Yes."
"Interesting."
He frowned slightly.
"I'm not sure that's the word I'd use."
"It is from my perspective."
That earned a look.
Not an angry one.
Just confused.
I ignored it.
My attention had already moved to the next piece of the puzzle.
"Buns."
Armand immediately understood who I meant.
His expression grew more serious.
"No."
The answer came quickly.
Too quickly.
I tilted my head.
"No?"
"No."
The silence stretched.
Then he sighed.
"She doesn't know."
For a moment I simply stared at him.
Not because I was angry.
Not because I was shocked.
Just because I genuinely couldn't understand the reasoning.
Eventually I rubbed at my forehead.
"Armand."
He waited.
"She's the only confirmed survivor."
The words felt heavier spoken aloud.
"The only one."
His gaze lowered slightly.
I continued.
"Every report I've seen. Every witness statement. Every fragment that's survived."
I shook my head.
"Everyone else is dead."
Neither of us spoke.
The corridor suddenly felt much quieter.
"She's the only person who actually lived through it."
My voice softened.
"She has a right to know."
Armand closed his eyes briefly.
A tired expression crossed his face.
"I know."
"Do you?"
His eyes opened again.
There was no anger there.
Only exhaustion.
"I do."
"Then why haven't you told her?"
That question lingered.
Longer this time.
Finally he answered.
"Because every time I try, I find another reason to wait."
I stared at him.
"That's not an answer."
"No," he admitted quietly.
"It isn't."
For a moment I almost pushed harder.
Then I stopped.
Because I already knew the real answer.
Fear.
Not fear of consequences.
Fear of hurting someone he cared about.
Fear that once the truth existed, it could never be taken back.
Unfortunately reality didn't particularly care about emotional comfort.
Eventually I nodded.
"We tell her."
Armand didn't argue.
That alone told me enough.
My gaze shifted.
"One more question."
His shoulders visibly tensed.
That was never a promising sign.
"Does Patch know?"
The reaction was immediate.
"No."
I stared at him.
Armand stared back.
The silence practically answered for him.
"No," he repeated.
"He doesn't."
I exhaled slowly.
Of course he didn't.
Because apparently everyone in this family had collectively decided that secrets were a healthy coping mechanism.
I looked up toward the ceiling.
For a brief moment I considered all the possible responses.
Then settled on the simplest one.
"Patch deserves to know."
Armand didn't respond.
"He's your son."
Still nothing.
"He deserves the truth."
A long silence followed.
Finally Armand nodded once.
A small movement.
Barely visible.
But genuine.
"Yes."
The word came out rough.
Almost reluctant.
Not because he disagreed.
Because he agreed completely.
And hated it.
I looked at him for another second before turning toward the exit.
"Good."
Armand frowned.
"Good?"
"We start with Buns."
I began walking.
After a brief hesitation, he followed.
The corridor stretched ahead of us, illuminated by pale morning light filtering through unfinished stonework.
Somewhere outside, Terminus was fully awake now.
People moving.
Talking.
Living.
Completely unaware of the conversations that were about to happen.
Neither of us spoke for several minutes.
The silence wasn't hostile.
Just heavy.
Eventually Armand glanced toward me.
"You've thought this through."
I laughed quietly.
"No."
That earned another confused look.
"I haven't thought nearly enough of it through."
The admission surprised even him.
I shoved my hands into my pockets.
"But some things don't require strategy."
The words hung between us.
"Buns deserves the truth."
I kept walking.
"Patch deserves the truth."
The morning sun was beginning to rise higher now, casting long shadows across the stone road ahead.
"And whether any of us like it or not..."
My gaze settled on the distant neighborhood where the D'Coolette home waited.
"The truth is where we're going."
Neither of us said anything after that.
Together, we started making our way back toward the house...
-------
The house was already awake by the time we returned.
Not fully loud—nothing chaotic—but alive in that quiet, layered way homes become when they've stopped surviving and started existing again.
Light spilled through open windows in soft strips. The smell of old stone warmed by morning air mixed with faint traces of metal polish and breakfast being prepared somewhere deeper inside.
And, most importantly, it sounded like training.
A rhythmic thump-thump-thump echoed from the courtyard side of the property.
Controlled impacts.
Measured breathing.
A discipline that didn't belong to panic or aftermath anymore.
It belonged to routine.
I followed the sound first.
Mary was already there.
Of course she was.
She stood at the edge of the training space like she had always belonged there more than anywhere else in the world, arms folded, posture relaxed in a way that still managed to look like command.
Patch was in motion.
Fast, but not reckless.
Coyote reflexes sharpened into something almost fluid—his feet cutting arcs through the dirt as he shifted weight between strikes against a worn training post. Each hit landed clean. Each recovery faster than the last.
He wasn't just training.
He was trying to outrun something.
Nearby, Buns was stretching.
Or more accurately—folding herself into impossible shapes.
She balanced on one hand, legs extended in a slow, deliberate arc above her head, spine bending with a controlled elegance that made it look less like flexibility and more like defiance of physics.
A rabbit built like a performer forced into a soldier's world.
She exhaled softly as she shifted positions, landing lightly on her feet before immediately flowing into another stretch.
Neither of them noticed me at first.
Mary did.
Her eyes met mine across the courtyard.
No words.
Just understanding.
A small tilt of her head—barely noticeable to anyone else—then a subtle straightening of her posture.
Acknowledgement received.
Message understood.
She called Patch over without saying a single word.
Just a gesture.
Two fingers curling slightly inward.
He noticed immediately.
Stopped mid-motion.
Rolled his shoulders once, then jogged over, wiping sweat from his brow as he approached.
Buns followed a moment later, slower but curious, adjusting her stance as she came closer.
"Arthur?" Patch asked, slightly breathless. "What's going on?"
I didn't answer immediately.
Because I was looking at them.
Really looking.
Patch—sharp-eyed, restless, carrying that same energy I had seen in his father when he was younger, before responsibility settled into his bones.
Buns—careful, observant, already reading the room before a single word had been spoken.
Mary stepped closer behind them.
Not intervening.
Just present.
Waiting.
I exhaled slowly.
"We need to talk," I said.
Patch frowned slightly.
"About what?"
Buns tilted her head.
Her ears flicked once.
"…That tone usually means bad news," she said lightly, though her eyes had already narrowed.
Mary didn't react outwardly.
But I saw it.
That subtle stillness.
She already knew the shape of what was coming.
"I need both of you," I continued, "to come with me."
Patch glanced at his mother instinctively.
Mary nodded once.
That was all it took.
No questions.
No hesitation.
Just silent permission.
"Go," she said quietly. "I'll finish training with you after."
Patch hesitated for half a second longer, then gave a small nod.
Buns, on the other hand, shifted her weight.
"Is this a 'we're about to be grounded or we're about to be recruited into something morally questionable' situation?" she asked.
I almost smiled.
Almost.
"It's a 'you deserve to know the truth' situation."
That made her pause.
Patch stopped fidgeting immediately.
Mary's gaze sharpened slightly—but still, she said nothing.
Buns straightened.
"…Oh," she said.
Not playful anymore.
Just aware.
"Yeah," Patch muttered. "That's worse."
I turned.
"Come on."
They followed.
The walk through the house felt longer than it should have.
Not because of distance—but because of silence.
Patch stayed slightly behind me, arms folded now, posture closed in a way that told me his mind had already started running through possibilities he didn't like.
Buns walked beside him, unusually quiet, no longer performing her usual fluid confidence.
Mary didn't follow.
But I could feel her presence behind us for a while anyway.
Watching.
Processing.
Deciding what to do with whatever came next.
We reached the interior corridor near the older wing of the house—less used, less decorated, more private. The kind of space people avoided not because it was dangerous, but because it demanded seriousness.
Armand was already there.
Waiting.
He didn't ask questions either.
He simply looked at me once.
Then at the two behind me.
Then nodded.
"Here," he said.
And led us into a small side room.
It wasn't grand.
Just stone walls, a simple table, two chairs, and a narrow window letting in a strip of morning light.
Enough space for truth.
Not enough for escape.
He stepped inside first.
Patch followed.
Buns hesitated for half a second at the doorway, then entered.
I came last.
Armand closed the door behind us.
The sound of the latch clicking into place felt louder than it should have.
Not dramatic.
Just final.
He turned the lock.
Once.
Then again.
A deliberate choice.
The kind that said this conversation would not be interrupted.
I stayed outside the door.
Not because I didn't belong inside.
But because I needed to.
Because some truths didn't need another voice in the room.
They needed space.
And silence.
From the other side, I heard the faint shift of movement.
A chair scraping slightly.
Patch's voice, low:
"…Alright. Someone want to start explaining why we're locked in a room with both of you looking like this?"
A pause.
Then Buns, quieter than before:
"I don't think this is the fun kind of secret."
Silence followed.
Heavy.
Waiting.
Armand's voice came next.
Careful.
Measured.
But not rehearsed.
"Sit down."
Another pause.
Then Patch:
"…Yeah. That's not reassuring."
I leaned back against the wall outside the door, folding my arms.
Guard duty.
Not from threats outside.
From what was about to come out.
Inside the room, Armand began to speak.
And I didn't interrupt.
Because this part wasn't mine to shape anymore.
It was theirs to survive...
-------
The room didn't move.
It didn't breathe.
It simply held.
As if the stone itself had decided this conversation mattered enough to trap it in place—no drafts from the corridor, no distant noise of training or morning routines, no comforting illusion that the world outside was continuing in a way that didn't care what was happening inside. Even the light coming through the high window felt subdued, as if it had been diluted before it was allowed in.
Armand stood near the door after locking it.
Not rigid.
Not theatrical.
Just… present. Fully present in the way of someone who had already decided there would be no escaping what came next.
Sir Armand broke the silence first.
"Okay," he said slowly, eyes moving between Patch and Buns, then settling back on his father like he was trying to find something steady in him. "I'm going to say this carefully."
A pause.
"Because I respect you too much not to."
That landed with more weight than anything else so far.
Patch's eyes flickered slightly, but he didn't interrupt.
Sir Armand continued, voice lower but steady.
"I already know now that Maxx Acorn was part of the system. I know what the Insurance Protocol was. I now know what happens when his heart stops."
Buns gave a faint nod. She didn't add anything, but her stillness confirmed she understood every word.
Patch swallowed once.
"And I know hundreds of thousands died in the Northern Baronies because of that cascade."
A beat.
"So when you say it out loud… I understand what it means."
Silence followed, but it wasn't shock anymore.
It was comprehension settling in like weight that couldn't be set down.
Sir Armand exhaled slowly through his nose.
Buns spoke next, voice quieter but firm.
"I was already inside the Organicizer network when it happened," she said. "That's the only reason I survived the structural collapse that followed."
Her fingers flexed once at her side.
"I wouldn't be here otherwise."
She said it plainly. Not as trauma. Not as emotion.
Just fact.
Armand nodded once.
"I know," he said quietly.
Patch looked down for a moment, then back up.
There was no anger in his expression. No accusation.
Only something steadier.
Respect trying to stay intact under pressure.
"You didn't tell us to shock us," Patch said. "You told us because we needed to know something."
Armand closed his eyes for half a second.
"Yes."
That one word carried more exhaustion than apology ever could.
Buns tilted her head slightly.
"…Then say it properly," she said. "All of it."
Armand hesitated.
Not because he was hiding anything.
Because he was remembering how little control he had truly had over any of it.
When he spoke again, his voice was lower.
"I killed Maxx Acorn," he said. "Without knowing what would happen afterward."
Patch blinked once.
That detail mattered.
Armand continued immediately, careful but direct.
"I did not know about the Insurance Protocol. I did not know about the cascade systems tied to his biological authority. I did not know that his heart stopping would trigger anything beyond his immediate death."
His jaw tightened slightly.
"I believed I was removing a central node of control in a collapsing system. I believed it would reduce escalation."
A pause.
"I was wrong."
Buns' eyes narrowed slightly, not in anger, but focus.
"So you didn't mean to trigger it," she said.
"No," Armand answered immediately. "I didn't even know it existed."
That hung in the air for a moment.
Patch's brows furrowed slightly.
"So you went in blind."
Armand didn't deny it.
"Yes."
A heavier pause followed.
Then Armand added, quieter:
"And I misjudged what he had built around himself."
Silence again.
This time it wasn't judgmental.
It was absorbing.
Armand's gaze shifted slightly, as if that silence was simpler, even if breaking it wasn't.
"Queen Ciara was the lesser threat," he said.
Patch's head tilted faintly.
"…Lesser?"
Armand nodded once.
"At the time, yes."
He didn't elaborate immediately.
Then, more carefully:
"Maxx Acorn's system was already embedded into infrastructure across entire regions. He was not just a ruler—he was a fail-safe point for multiple collapsing systems that no one else had full visibility into. Ciara was dangerous, but predictable. Contained within a known political structure."
A pause.
"I thought removing Acorn would stabilize everything else."
His eyes darkened slightly.
"It didn't."
That was the first time his voice carried something like regret instead of confession.
Patch let out a slow breath.
"So you chose what you thought was the smaller fire."
"Yes," Armand said.
"And it turned into an explosion," Buns added quietly.
Armand nodded again.
"Yes."
Silence settled.
Not cold this time.
Heavier.
More human.
Patch rubbed the back of his neck, staring at the floor for a moment before looking back at Armand.
"You still told us," he said.
Armand met his eyes.
"Yes."
Patch nodded slowly.
"That matters."
Buns didn't speak immediately, but when she did, her voice had softened slightly.
"I don't think I know how to deal with this yet," she admitted.
Armand didn't push her.
"That's okay."
A pause.
Then Patch stepped forward.
Not hesitating.
Not uncertain.
Just moving with intent.
And before Armand could fully register it, Patch pulled him into a hug.
Firm.
Not delicate.
Not ceremonial.
Just real.
Armand stiffened for a fraction of a second—pure instinct—but then slowly, carefully, his arms came up and returned it.
Neither of them spoke.
They didn't need to.
After a moment, Patch pulled back slightly, exhaling.
"…You're still my dad," he said quietly. "That doesn't change."
Armand's expression tightened, something raw flickering behind his eyes, but he only nodded once.
"I understand," he said.
Patch stepped back.
Buns watched the exchange for a moment longer.
Then she stood.
Slowly.
Armand's eyes shifted to her immediately—not wary, just present.
Buns exhaled.
"I need to say something," she said.
Armand nodded once.
"Go ahead."
She stepped closer.
Stopped within arm's reach.
Looked up at him.
"…I'm sorry," she said quietly. "But I need to get this out of my system."
There was no time to respond as a tear went down her cheek.
Her fist came up.
And she hit him.
Hard.
Clean.
Right across the face.
The impact echoed in the room like a punctuation mark no one had wanted to write, but everyone understood needed to exist.
Armand stumbled half a step back, not from weakness, but surprise—hand briefly lifting toward his jaw.
He didn't retaliate.
He didn't even raise his voice.
He just stood there for a moment, breathing slowly through the sting, eyes closed.
Patch didn't intervene.
Buns flexed her hand slightly, shaking out the impact.
The room went quiet again.
But this time, it wasn't fractured.
It was finished in a different way.
Armand opened his eyes again, looking between them both.
"…Understood," he said quietly.
And for the first time since the door had been locked—
There was no illusion left between them at all.
Now they just had to open the door again and bring anew...