The imperial carriage rocked gently over the dirt path, flanked on all sides by soldiers in full black and crimson, their formation flawless. Each step of the horses was absorbed by the thick mud of late winter, and still, the rhythm pressed on without pause. Inside, the cabin was warm, lined with soft furs and cushioned seats, but it did little to ease the ache in Malec's chest.
He sat with Allora in his arms, her back reclined against his chest, her head resting against his collarbone. She hadn't spoken in hours. Not since they crossed the old border stone and left the last safe line of the western provinces behind.
She wasn't fighting him.
She wasn't doing anything.
That scared him more than her fury ever had.
She'd gotten far, too far, before he'd found her again. Just days more and she would have crossed into another nation—one whose guards would not have hesitated to gut an Awyan soldier at the gates. Not even for him.
Malec had fought in wars. Led men through fire. But a border breach was something else entirely. And even he—with all his legend and rage—would not have survived a full-scale pursuit across another empire's soil.
Thank the gods she hadn't made it.
Thank the gods he'd gotten to her in time.
Still, the journey ahead was long. The Capitol was days away. And already, the quiet was gnawing at him.
He had sent Surian and Luko back with Vaeril, unwilling to risk exposing their son to court vultures or worse—his cousin. Vaeril hadn't liked it.
Not one bit.
Malec had felt his protest ripple through the air like heat off pavement. Watched with strange awe as the child—barely old enough to lift his head—caused a book and two goblets to slide across the table as if pushed by unseen hands.
He was so proud.
And so concerned.
Such raw power could be dangerous. Vaeril would need discipline, careful guidance. He couldn't let their son grow into a weapon that harmed rather than protected. But for now, there was only one priority.
Save her.
He'd told Vaeril that. Not in words, but in thought—projected into that shared space only the three of them could enter.
Vaeril had understood.
He'd quieted. For now.
Outside the carriage, the muffled sound of hooves thudded beside them in time with the rocking sway. But it wasn't the high-step clatter of a warhorse—it was the more determined, stubborn gait of something smaller, hardier.
Kalemon.
Riding a mule.
She refused to enter the carriage. Refused.
Malec hadn't even argued—he knew better.
Allora had demanded Kalemon join them, going as far as refusing to eat until it was guaranteed. Even then, she'd sat cross-legged on the bed like a sullen queen, arms folded and eyes locked in protest, her voice hoarse but clear: "Either she comes with me, or I swear to the stars, I'll scream this whole trip until your ears bleed."
And Kalemon, despite herself, had agreed.
Though not without muttering a warning under her breath about accidentally strangling Malec in the middle of a cramped cabin if forced to share it.
So she rode alongside them instead, cloaked in a thick mantle, her dark skin kissed by the cold wind, her posture regal despite the mule's grumpy pace. The animal had a soul to match hers—stubborn, slow, relentless.
Malec could feel her presence out there. Watching. Waiting. Waiting to see if he would fail her.
And strangely, he was grateful.
Grateful that Allora still had someone who loved her enough to ride halfway across the realm behind a man she loathed—on a beast she called a "walking middle finger."
The nights were worse.
Allora slept in his lap, her body limp but restless, her legs twitching violently as nightmares dragged her under. Sometimes she moaned. Other times she screamed. And those were the ones that tore him from sleep—desperate, breathless, helpless to do anything but hold her as she writhed in terror.
So he took her into the dreamscape.
He called her there, wrapped her in that shared mental fold. And there—beneath the soft light of a sky that didn't exist—Vaeril always waited for them. Sometimes laughing. Sometimes curled between them. Watching. Always watching.
"I'll protect her here," Vaeril had told him. "No one can hurt her in here."
And he did.
There, in that hidden world stitched between thoughts and souls, Allora didn't cry.
She smiled.
She laughed.
Her eyes held light.
Malec had never loved a place more. Never needed anything so desperately. Because there—there she was still his. Not by chains. Not by force. But by choice.
He found himself growing addicted to that quiet space. To her joy. To the soft brushes of her fingers along his shoulder, to the way she curled into him not because she had to—but because she wanted to.
In the dreamscape, no one could come between them.
And for now, that would have to be enough.
Because the real world was waiting.
And it wanted to rip her away.
___________________________________________________________________________
It was high noon, and the warmth had returned to the world like a slow, cruel trick.
The snow was gone. The roads no longer crunched beneath the carriage wheels—they whispered, damp and soft beneath iron. Trees on either side of the path reached up, limbs unfurling delicate green buds like the sky itself had whispered that it was time to wake. The sun hung high and sharp, gold spilling across the land in wide, open bands.
It should've been beautiful.
But to Allora, it felt like walking into a furnace.
The closer they drew to the Capitol, the heavier she felt. Her stomach had long since hollowed, her fingers numb despite the heat. The warmth did nothing to lift her from the fog in her chest.
Every turn of the wheel. Every mile passed.
One step closer to being sold off.
Her lips were pressed in a tight line as she stared out the window, arms crossed, the hood of her star-draped cloak hanging low around her neck. She wasn't trembling anymore. That had stopped hours ago. Now she just sat still. Quiet. Silent like the dead.
Malec was watching her.
He felt it in her body before she even spoke. The slow crumpling of her will. The way her breath sat shallow in her lungs. She hadn't cried since the first night. But this silence was worse.
This silence meant she'd accepted something.
And that made panic coil in his stomach.
He leaned forward slightly, voice low, coaxing, like he was trying to ease a spooked animal back into trust.
"You know," he said, "my bloodline holds the actual right to the throne."
Allora didn't look at him.
He kept speaking anyway, slower this time, sensing her focus begin to shift toward him.
"I only gave it to Surion because I didn't want it. I preferred the battlefield. I always have."
A pause.
The carriage creaked beneath them.
Malec's voice dropped even lower.
"I gave it to him because I thought—he was more likely to have heirs. And I… wasn't."
Allora blinked once, her gaze still turned out the window.
"You regret it now?" she asked quietly.
He was silent a moment.
Then: "I regret believing I was incapable of love."
That made her look at him.
Her eyes, heavy and rimmed with exhaustion, flicked up slowly to meet his.
Malec didn't smile.
He wasn't trying to charm her. Not now.
He was simply laying it bare.
"I thought I was born to destroy," he said. "To end things. That was all I was good at. And I didn't want to bring children into a world I was trained to cut apart."
His eyes searched hers.
"But now I see you. And I see him. And I know—I was wrong."
The air in the carriage shifted. The heat outside bled in through the window.
Allora didn't answer right away.
Malec let out a low, unexpected laugh—a sharp sound that echoed softly off the walls of the carriage.
It wasn't mockery. Not cruel.
But bitter. Ironic. Almost amused by the gods themselves.
Allora's eyes narrowed slightly, caught off guard by the sudden break in his mood. Her gaze drifted up to him beneath the heavy blue hood, the gold constellations catching the sun through the small sliver of window behind her.
"What's so funny?" she asked, voice flat, suspicious.
Malec's smile twisted.
"The irony," he said, shaking his head as he leaned back against the cushioned seat. "All this time, Surion plotted and schemed, clinging to the throne like it was a birthright… because he thought he was more likely to produce an heir."
He glanced over at her, one brow raised, the pale tan of his eyes glinting with wry amusement.
"And now here we are. He's still alone, still childless… and I'm the one who has the future of our people asleep back home."
Allora blinked, surprised.
She looked away quickly, but not fast enough to hide the twitch in her lip—something bitter, but almost… satisfied.
She tilted her head, narrowed her eyes at him.
"What does that mean? What are you saying?"
Malec leaned forward again, closer to her now, the softness returning to his voice.
"It means we're not powerless," he said. "You're not powerless. You made something no one else in this realm can. Not even the king. Not even the empire. And they know that now."
His hand brushed against hers—slow, careful, never forcing.
"You've been treated like prey, Allora. Like a cure. Like a possession. But you're not. You're the future. And they're terrified."
She studied him, not pulling away, her expression unreadable. But her eyes didn't harden the way they usually did.
Instead, her lips parted—just slightly.
Not to argue.
Not to spit venom.
Just to breathe.
And Malec, for a fleeting moment, saw it again—
The version of her from the dreamscape.
Not broken. Not caged.
Whole.
____________________________________________________________________________
The gates of the Capitol were wide open—but the warmth that usually welcomed foreign dignitaries and nobles was nowhere to be found.
Instead, a heavy silence hung over the grand palace plaza.
Soldiers stood in rows, not in honor, but in subtle, defensive formation. They lined the pathway like statues, armor gleaming in the sun, their helms lowered but their hands resting just close enough to their hilts to send a message.
This wasn't a welcome.
It was a warning.
Malec knew it.
He didn't even flinch.
He saw through the polished façade the moment the caravan rolled to a stop, saw the real reason those guards were positioned like that—not to escort, not to protect Allora… but to protect Surion.
His cousin was afraid.
And rightly so.
Because the last time Malec had found Allora taken from him, the Capitol had nearly burned.
Still, he wasn't a fool. He never had been.
He knew Surion's fear made him dangerous. A rat was most clever when cornered. And Surion had always had a talent for getting others to do his dirty work while he stayed in the shadows, untouched.
The carriage door was opened with ceremony, but Malec ignored the footman.
He stepped out slowly, his polished black boots landing against the white stone with a finality that made several of the guards twitch.
Straightening to his full height, he scanned the plaza until his gaze landed on the peacock himself.
Surion stood at the edge of the stone steps, hands outstretched like a gracious host—but there was tension in his shoulders, and the glint in his eyes was too sharp to be genuine.
Malec said nothing.
He turned, bent down, and reached back into the carriage with both hands.
Allora stepped forward hesitantly. He took her waist, guided her gently, and set her down like she was the most precious thing he'd ever touched.
And perhaps she was.
She adjusted her cloak, the dark blue fabric with its golden stars and moons shifting around her like a piece of the night sky had fallen to earth.
Malec looked down at her, softening only for her.
"Are you ready?" he asked, voice low and private.
Allora lifted her eyes to him—those storm-dark eyes that held every ounce of weariness, defiance, and hidden steel.
She gave a small nod.
That was all he needed.
He took her hand—firm, protective—and led her forward.
But she stayed slightly behind him, just to the side, as he preferred. It wasn't about submission. It was instinct. He always positioned himself between her and the world.
The Silver Fox walked straight down the center of the guard-lined path with his Canariae in tow, his aura so sharp and crackling that even the most seasoned soldiers averted their gaze as he passed.
Surion, still standing on the top step, had lowered his hands now. The gesture of welcome wilted. He extended one hand stiffly for a greeting instead.
"Hah, cousin," he offered, voice strained with rehearsed charm. "I must say, Capitol air hasn't felt this tense since the war."
Malec took the hand—but just barely. A controlled grip. No warmth.
Surion flinched the moment their palms touched.
Because he felt it.
The heat.
The death coiling beneath Malec's skin like a restrained blaze.
And the promise that if one thing—one thing—went wrong, he would snap necks before a sword could be drawn.
Surion forced a smile, already regretting the game he'd invited back into his court.
And behind them, Allora stood silent—wrapped in a cloak of stars, the mother of the miracle, and the spark of the war to come.
Malec's boots struck the marble with loud, confident purpose as they passed through the inner gate of the palace. Gold-tipped banners rippled in the breeze above them, bearing Surion's royal crest—but Malec didn't so much as glance up.
Surion, ever the sycophant when it suited him, scampered to keep pace with his taller cousin, adjusting his sash as he followed. "You're… taking her to the guest quarters?"
Malec didn't answer. He led Allora up the wide steps, hand still wrapped in hers, eyes locked ahead.
Surion laughed, a little too loudly. "She's not going to the royal wing? Surely you don't think she's that—what—unruly?"
Without pause, Malec's free hand swung back and smacked Surion upside the head with a clean, open-palmed crack that echoed off the stone.
Surion yelped, stumbling backward a step, hand flying to the side of his scalp. "Ow—what the hell was that for!?"
None of the guards moved.
Not a twitch.
They'd seen it before.
Everyone in the Capitol had.
Surion grumbled under his breath, rubbing the back of his head. "Touchy as ever…"
Malec didn't respond.
Allora, however, blinked in slow, drugged confusion as her foot caught the hem of her cloak. Her balance wavered, and her knees nearly gave out. The stairs loomed threateningly beneath her.
Malec noticed too late—his grip too tight, his pace too quick. She tripped.
And then, without missing a beat, he turned.
In one fluid motion, he swept her up into his arms, bridal-style.
Her head fell gently against his chest, her hands pressed weakly to his tunic. She didn't protest—couldn't. Not with how heavy her limbs were.
Surion, ever behind and never useful, lifted his brows. "Is she alright? I could call a physician—"
"She doesn't need your court physicians," Malec snapped, not even looking over his shoulder. "I brought a healer."
They passed through the velvet-curtained arch leading toward the guest quarters, the servants scattering like wind-blown leaves in his wake.
Malec's tone was commanding now, icy and clipped. "Have someone bring Kalemon to Allora's chambers. She's Canariae. She traveled with our caravan."
Surion came to a dead halt.
"Another one? In my palace?"
Malec didn't slow.
Didn't turn.
Didn't dignify that comment with anything more than a clenched jaw and the faintest flare of heat rolling off his shoulders.
He didn't stop moving until they reached the chamber doors.
He nudged them open with his boot and crossed the threshold, setting Allora gently down on the edge of the vast bed, adjusting her limbs so she rested comfortably against the mountain of pillows and linens.
Three guards stood just outside.
He pointed to one.
"You. Inside. Don't take your eyes off that door."
The elf nodded and entered.
Malec ordered the others into position on either side of the door. "No one enters unless Kalemon herself. Or I."
They bowed without question.
Only once Kalemon arrived—cloaked in dust and attitude, her mule left in the stables and her expression already tight with irritation—did Malec allow himself to leave.
He looked at Allora one last time.
She was safe.
For now.
Then he turned, his muscles tight beneath his silver fox sigil, fists clenched at his sides, and stormed down the hall.
He had a chat to finish with his little cousin.
And this time, there would be no interruptions.
____________________________________________________________________________
The double doors of the royal meeting hall flew open with a thunderous crack, slamming against the stone walls with enough force to shake the stained glass in their iron-framed windows.
Malec entered first.
Like a storm in silver.
His tunic was tight, his boots silent, and his fists still curled from the fury he hadn't yet burned through. Every line of his body screamed warpath. His pale tan eyes scanned the room like they were hunting something he had already decided to destroy. His hair, unbound and shining like a war-banner of moonlight, whipped slightly with the swing of his stride.
Surion stumbled in behind him, panting as he tried to keep pace. He tugged at his golden collar, the long tail of his embroidered robe nearly catching underfoot. Behind him came a procession of guards—not to guard Malec, but to protect others from him. And yet, not one of them dared to walk too close.
No one in the palace wanted to be the one who got between the Silver Fox and whatever had put that fire behind his eyes.
The nobles inside, seated in long curved rows around a gleaming obsidian table, went deathly still.
Conversations cut off mid-sentence.
Cups were set down mid-sip.
All heads turned.
A few startled gasps escaped, but quickly hushed.
Every noble who had once been lounging, legs crossed, smug in their seat, stood in unison when they saw him.
Malec.
Commander of the Northern Front.
The Elf who razed cities to ash.
The silver beast whose fury had once carved through enemy lines like they were reeds in a windstorm.
And now? Now he stood before them with the scent of blood on his cloak and fire in his lungs.
Respect filled the room like incense—thick, choking, reverent. But beneath it, Malec smelled rot. Vultures. Every one of them. They had all heard the whispers. They knew why he was here. They wanted to see if it was true. And worse—if she could be taken.
To him, they were all enemies now.
He cast a glance to the far right.
His jaw clenched.
Surin.
His father was there, standing in the far corner speaking with a visiting delegate from the Southern Continent. He turned as Malec entered, arching a single white brow but offering no other reaction.
Why was he here?
A low, guttural growl slipped from Malec's throat. Not loud. Not enough for most to hear. But enough.
Enough to change the air.
The temperature shifted. Shoulders stiffened. The room knew.
This was not going to be a gentle conversation. Some nobles began to regret showing up.
Malec strode to the long table and, without pause, took the seat at the head.
The king's chair.
It was a statement.
Not subtle. Not polite.
This was his court now.
Surion hesitated before sliding into the seat beside him, lips tight, face pale, trying to act as if this was normal. But his hands fidgeted in his lap and a sheen of sweat had already broken along his temples.
The room followed Malec's lead and began to sit, careful, tentative.
Chairs creaked softly, fabric shifted. No one dared speak.
Not yet.
Malec let the silence hang. Let it build.
Then, finally, he spoke.
"The court summoned my Canariae."
His voice was smooth, but sharp. A blade drawn slowly from its sheath.
"She was summoned without my consent. Mockingly." His eyes slid to Surion. "As if to provoke me. To rattle the leash."
Surion tried to open his mouth but quickly shut it again.
Malec turned back to the room.
"And yes," he said, standing now, hands braced against the table, his voice carrying like thunder. "The rumors are true."
He paused.
"She has given birth."
Gasps erupted.
Chairs scraped as nobles leaned forward, some blinking in disbelief, others gripping the edges of the table.
A child? From a Canariae?
No. No—surely not.
Malec didn't stop.
"A son."
The word cracked the room in half.
Murmurs erupted, then grew into a storm. Voices overlapped in shock, awe, confusion.
The impossible had happened.
A hybrid. A living heir. An answer to the extinction quietly looming over the Awyan people.
Nobles from high bloodlines leaned toward each other, whispering fast and fierce, already calculating the implications.
Malec let them speak—for now.
Because he wanted them to feel the weight of it.
He wanted them to understand—
This wasn't just news.
It was history.
And he, not Surion, had rewritten the fate of their dying race.
The room was ablaze with voices.
Gasps turned into questions—quick, eager, nervous.
One noble, a tall elf with jade-green robes, lifted a hand respectfully. "Commander Malec… surely, this is not a jest? You are certain she is full Canariae?"
Another—older, frail but sharp-eyed—leaned in across the table, her voice brittle with disbelief. "This… this is a miracle, my lord. May we… may we see the child?"
And another, already licking his lips with courtly greed: "Do we know if this is a unique pairing, or… could there be others?"
Malec said nothing.
Not yet.
He stood tall at the head of the table, hands clasped behind his back, letting the murmur spread like wildfire. Letting the vultures circle. Their awe was thick, their hunger thicker. And he needed them exposed before he struck.
His eyes scanned the room coldly—until a familiar voice cut clean through the noise.
"I can confirm it."
It was Surin.
The elder Awyan's voice was calm, firm, even as he remained seated, hands folded before him like a quiet warning. "I was present at the birth. I saw the child with my own eyes. He bears my son's blood, his ears, and his eyes."
The murmuring turned fevered.
Chairs shifted. Papers rustled. Some nobles reached for wine they hadn't touched, others whispered prayers under their breath.
And then the questions changed.
Deeper. Sharper. More dangerous.
"What does this mean for our kingdom?"
"Will this bring hope or paint a target on our backs?"
"Can she be protected—or outsourced?"
That last word was a mistake.
"Outsourced."
The breath hadn't even left the noble's mouth before—
CRACK.
Malec's fist came down hard on the table, splitting the polished wood with a thunderous slam that silenced the room instantly. Echoes of the impact reverberated across the walls like a death bell.
Not one elf dared to speak.
Malec's voice, when it returned, was low and deadly.
"I have no intention of giving up my Canariae."
He let the words drag like a blade across a throat.
"She is mine. And the only reason I brought her here was to quiet my cousin's whispers and end the speculation. That is all."
Surion sputtered beside him, clearly about to speak, but Malec raised a hand—slow, sharp—and the King-in-name faltered into silence.
Malec surveyed the court. His tone remained iron-steady.
"But since I'm here," he continued, "I have another purpose."
He let the tension build—then drove the dagger in.
"I am requesting full union rights. I intend to bind the mother of my child—the bearer of my blood—under Awyan law. I will make her my wife."
The room exploded.
Voices crashed over each other like thunderous waves. Some cried out in disbelief. Others in outrage. Still more with stunned fascination. Never in living memory had a full-blooded Awyan entered sacred union with a Canariae.
Surion scrambled upright, face flushed with panic. "You—You can't—! That would require full council approval! You're talking about elevating her to noble status!"
Malec didn't even look at him.
Surin, across the table, sat still. Watching. Assessing. He wasn't surprised—but the weight of what his son was doing settled deep in his chest.
Of course Malec would go this far.
He was never content with possibility. He shattered limits. Broke history. Bent the world if it stood between him and what he claimed.
And he had always—always—been obsessed with that wild-eyed human girl who refused to kneel.
The nobles turned now to whispers of foreign diplomacy.
"She could bridge the East," one murmured. "The princesses of Tyrelia have always hated us. But this… this could be a symbol. A peace offering."
"A mixed child born of both worlds…"
"This could save us."
But Malec?
He didn't care.
He stood at the head of that crumbling empire, staring down an entire kingdom of hungry mouths and false hands, and thought only of her.
They could burn.
They could beg.
They could barter peace or threaten war.
He would not give her up.
Let the world end in ash and blood.
So long as it ended with Allora in his arms.
The chamber was chaos.
Words flew like daggers—sharp, heated, gasping. Nobles shouted over one another, trying to grasp meaning, leverage, direction. Courtiers leaned in, whispering frantically to emissaries from distant lands, and a few even dared to raise their voices in protest.
Malec stood untouched by the storm.
He waited. Let them argue. Let them froth.
Then he lifted his hand.
The silence was immediate.
"Enough," he said.
Not loud. But devastating.
"You all sit here wondering if this council will approve," he continued, voice slow, measured, filled with quiet wrath. "Let me clarify something."
He stepped forward, placing both hands flat on the scarred wood of the council table. "This nation," he said, eyes sweeping across every face, "owes me. You owe me your power, your borders, your feasts, your safe little beds."
He leaned in, the heat behind his words rising like coals stirred to life.
"I have bled for this empire. I have nearly died for it. More than once. While the lot of you squabble over land rights and lineage, I've held the damn walls from falling. And what have you done in return?"
No one answered.
"Sat fat and idle. Waiting for someone like me to clean up the blood."
He waved his hand sharply.
An attendant stepped forward with trembling hands and placed a thick stack of parchment before him.
Malec flipped through the first page, then set it on the table.
"This is a binding contract. Union rights. Elevation status. Full titles. Legal protections. You will all sign it by tomorrow morning."
A few nobles paled. One choked.
Malec's eyes burned like a sunrise set to rage.
"Any council member who has not signed it…" He let the pause breathe. "Will find their homes ash. Their servants screaming. Their heirs hanging from the trees outside their estates."
Gasps sucked the air from the room.
And with that, he turned.
He didn't wait for argument. He didn't entertain rebuttal.
He left.
The doors slammed shut behind him.
Silence reigned for only a second—and then the chamber exploded.
Cries of outrage and desperation rang out, nobles scrambling to process what had just happened. Some argued about legality, others begged for clarity, and still others demanded protection. Surion stood in the middle of it all, trying in vain to calm them, raising his hands to shout, to command order—but it was useless. He had already lost control.
He slumped into his chair, rubbing his temples in exasperation.
And then—
Surin's voice echoed in his mind.
A low whisper, not spoken aloud, but clear across their shared blood-bond. Ancient. Private. Familiar.
"So… it's come to this."
Surion mentally replied, the words sharp with frustration. "I didn't think he'd pull this. He's always ten steps ahead—always! Go talk him down, Surin!"
Across the table, Surin remained still, his face unreadable, one long finger trailing the rim of his goblet.
"And what would that do?" he replied coolly. "You know he's obsessed. You know how deep it runs. Try to separate them now, and we won't leave this city alive."
Surion snorted aloud, drawing a few odd glances before lowering his hand.
"He always gets his way," Surion spat into their link. "Just once—I want him to lose. To feel it. To know what it means to not win."
There was a long pause.
And then Surin asked, voice darker: "So this isn't about politics for you. You just want to punish my son."
Surion looked up at him across the table, bitterness on his tongue.
"Yes," he admitted. "But also… that one king in the East. He said if I gave her to him, he'd end the wars at the border. He'd sign a treaty. It would solve everything."
Surin didn't blink.
He didn't change expression.
But inside, a part of him shattered.
"You're going to do it, aren't you."
"We don't have a choice," Surion replied.
Surin looked down at the wine in his goblet.
The red liquid rippled, catching the candlelight like blood.
"Yes," he thought. "I know. And may Malec forgive me."
Because he had made his decision long ago.
Long before this meeting.
When Malec had descended into madness tearing across the nation, threatening nobles, slaughtering informants, choking every lead dry in his search for a runaway Canariae…
That was the moment Surin knew.
If Allora remained, Malec would burn.
And with the country on the brink of war, foreign kingdoms offering peace in exchange for her, and Surian's own future hanging by a thread—he had no choice.
Not as a father.
Not as a kingmaker.
Not as a man.
He would send Allora away.
Sell her like a political treasure.
And break his son's heart to save his daughter's.
Even if it destroyed them all.