Page 4 of Thunder's Reckoning

Malik slipped in without a sound. At ten, he already moved like someone who’d learned silence could keep you safe. “Goodmorning, Mother Sable,” he said, polite and formal, eyes flicking to the camera in the corner.

“Good morning, Malik,” I said, smiling at him. “You sleep alright?”

“Yes,” he said, glancing at the camera again. The cameras weren’t just for security. Gabrial wanted proof we followed the rules every second of the day.

“Good.” I hated that I couldn’t just hug him. I started the first braid, fingers working without looking, muscle memory older than my freedom. Zara leaned into me, humming softly until she forgot to be afraid.

“Inside voice,” Malik reminded her gently, repeating a correction he’d once been given. His eyes flicked to me, unsure if he’d crossed a line.

“It’s alright,” I said, smoothing Zara’s hair. “Just a little song.”

I was halfway through the braid when I heard footsteps in the hall, lighter than most, but steady. You felt Gabrial before you saw him. Zara went still in my lap.

Gabrial filled the doorway the way he always did, not by size, but by making the room his. Dark suit. Warm smile. This was daytime Gabrial—Cartel boss to the outside world. The prophet was still there, under the surface, but you wouldn’t see it in front of the wrong audience.

“My family,” he said, voice like honey. “How good we look in the morning.”

“Good morning,” Malik said quickly, bowing just like he’d been taught.

Zara’s fingers gripped my dress. “Good morning, Father,” she whispered.

Gabrial stepped in, changing the shape of the room. He brushed a knuckle along Malik’s jaw like a blessing, then lookedat us, at the brush in my hand, the elastic on Zara’s wrist, the braid taking shape in her hair.

“How industrious,” he said. “And yet—” his gaze lifted to my loose hair against the white dress—“I love the flow of loose hair.”

I kept my eyes soft. “Zara asked,” I said quietly. “It’s only for a little while.”

He crossed to us. I felt him before he reached us, heat, weight, that pressure he carried like a storm. He touched Zara’s braid, testing the tension. When his fingers brushed mine, it took everything not to flinch.

“A child’s prettiness is innocence,” he said. “So I’ll allow it today.” His hand slid into my hair, fanning it over my shoulder, slow and claiming. “But I don’t want to see this in a braid, understand?”

“Yes,” I said, feeling the word close something inside me.

He bent toward Zara, smiling in a way that warmed only because he saw himself in her. “You will learn,” he told her. “To be a quiet flame. Bright but contained.”

She nodded, lips pressed. I tied off her braid while he watched, making it look like permission instead of the small act of defiance it was.

His phone buzzed once in his pocket. He glanced at the screen, a name I didn’t recognize, before sliding it away without answering. The look in his eyes said a conversation would happen later, in another part of the house.

He straightened, offering Malik two fingers. Malik took them because it was the ritual and because not taking them meant punishment.

“Walk with me,” Gabrial said. “Recite the virtues on the way to breakfast.”

“Yes, Father.” Malik followed him out.

The intercom clicked again: “Mother Sable, you are permitted the garden between eight and nine. Escort will arrive shortly.”

Permitted. Escort. Words dressed in silk, cut to fit a prison.

I finished Zara’s second braid, turning her to face me. “You’re perfect,” I told her.

She smiled, small and brave. “Can we pick flowers? Please.”

“Yes,” I said, taking her hand.

Rhea, my morning guard, was tall and broad-shouldered for a woman, in a gray suit. Polite—too polite. The kind who believed in the rules.

“The garden doors will remain open,” she said. “You are to stay within the inner path.”