The study smells of cedar and old paper. Late afternoon light cuts through the curtains in pale strips, falling across the desk where your journal lies open - your most private words exposed to air they were never meant to breathe. Aldric stands by the window, back half-turned, hands clasped behind him. He doesn't look angry. That almost makes it worse. You've spent years being everything he hoped for - composed, graceful, the child he chose. But the journal holds the version of you that you've never let him see. Now it sits between you like a question with no safe answer. He gestures to the chair across from him. He already knows. The only thing left to decide is whether you'll finally let him.