Kaji's hand grew heavier in Minerva's grip, feet dragging until he nearly face-planted. At least they'd reached the Imperial Academy. She left him napping on a cushioned bench outside the hallway to the kitchens while she took the stairs up to Matsudo's office. Lamplight leaked from underneath the door.

She knocked.

"Come in." The former general had his inkwell and documents out.

"Finances again?" Minerva asked, taking the chair on the other side of his desk.

"When is it not?" Matsudo shuffled the papers to the side and brought a tray to the center. "Tea?"

"Please." The study comforted her and she looked around as he heated the tea. Books arranged in neat rows filled the walls. His pair of swords hung above the fireplace, cleaned and oiled to perfection. Two leather chairs sat at a sturdy desk of drawers. Nothing ever out of place and all where they should be. "You could hire a secretary, sir," Minerva said, as she always did.

He handed her a cup of tea with a steady hand. "So I could have more work and cleaning up to do? Not likely."

They sipped their tea together. He set his cup down and leaned back in his chair—her cue to begin.

"I have a boy out in the hallway downstairs," Minerva said.

Matsudo's eyes flickered with surprise and amusement before stilling. He didn't speak. He never hurried to draw the attention to himself.

"I'd like for him to be enrolled here. I'll pay his tuition as an anonymous patron. Bring him into the new year with the students you'll pick up and let him be one of their number. He's outer ring-born."

Matsudo ran his fingers through his grey beard. "I almost jumped to a conclusion."

"Even the best of us do sometimes," Minerva said into her tea.

"I almost thought you meant another kind of boy."

She set her cup down with more force than intended. Matsudo's eyes shifted to her hands, missing nothing. "I'm not interested in that kind," she ground out through her teeth.

Matsudo let her stew while he opened a cupboard and unwrapped some pastries from a cloth. He unsheathed his belt knife and ran a finger of flame along its edge. "Someone's been rattling your cage," he said quietly.

She wasn't ready to face this yet. "The boy's tuition first."

"Consider it done." He sliced one bean bun in half and slid the plate to her. "What's his background?"

Biting into the bun, Minerva forced the tension out of her muscles, starting at her neck and shoulders. "His father was the assassin I executed yesterday. His mother is dead—Muran, probably from a golden bloodline—but she entrusted him to my care."

Mine and Kodak's. The addition wasn't vital at this point.

"Why did you agree to that?" Matsudo's eyes bore down on her. His gaze scared students to confessions because of its unreadability. He betrayed neither judgment nor compassion and let them tell their version of truth as they saw fit.

Minerva shrugged. "Guilt probably."

The silence went on too long for her. It made her think. Just as Matsudo intended.

"It was a dying wish, the kind that should be kept. I'd have to be heartless to have refused that woman."

She'd eaten all of her bun, once again forgetting her hunger until someone placed sustenance in her hands. Still, Matsudo didn't eat or speak. He didn't apply pressure—try to grill her like Nola did. Minerva met his eyes and tried to read them. She failed and all she knew was that she hadn't said everything she needed to. He would speak then.

She shifted in her seat. "I think I wanted some kind of closure," Minerva whispered.

He waited. "Closure for what?"

It took her a few minutes. "It's as if this boy is me, when I was younger, when Auntie Dina was dying. And this woman was her, wanting to know he'd be alright without her. It's ... a selfish reason, really." Minerva sighed. "Who am I fooling? I dropped the feather on the pack that broke the spine of their family."

"You're learning." Matsudo held up first his right hand then his left. "Which is more important? The action or the intention?"

Minerva traced the grain of the desk with her finger. "That must be a trick question. They're equal."

"So like the two feet of one person, they must walk together to get somewhere. Work on right intention while taking effective action." He paused. "And yours is not the most selfish action possible."

Giving a sly smile, Minerva leaned over and took his half of the bean bun. He didn't notice. "What do you mean?"

Matsudo closed his eyes. "I mean that Edina asked me to take care of you—"

Minerva dropped the bun back on the plate.

"—and I acted selfishly."

Minerva spluttered. "Are you saying you didn't care about me then?"

"No!" His eyes shot open. "Don't jump to conclusions." Matsudo took the bean bun and stuffed it into her mouth before she could say more. "I care about you as a daughter. Arguably it's that sentiment, along with my relationship to Edina, which spurred me on to selfish sabotage.

"You said you dropped the final feather that broke this boy's family. Well, in the original situation you've compared it to, I was the one who dropped the feather on yours."

That couldn't be right. Minerva took the bun out of her mouth to protest, but Matsudo waved her down.

"Just listen. I've been meaning to tell you before you left. Now is as good an opportunity as any." He rested his elbows on the desk, one hand closed over the fist of the other. "I have to go back for this to make sense. You know I ... loved Edina?"

Minerva nodded slowly. She knew of their tragic romance, but Matsudo would tell the whole story—along with details dating back decades—or none of it.

"Back then, I liked to think of myself as the hero in old tales: a young man set an impossible task before he could ask for the hand of his beloved. I knew she was far above me in rank and that it would take years, but I did it. I became a general and won the Terron war—the very war she'd tried so hard to prevent with diplomacy."

The irony wasn't lost on Minerva. "You returned to the empire in victory," she said, seeing that pain kept Matsudo mute. "You opened the school and worked to build a home that would be worthy of her, even with hands that had only shed blood. But at the end of it ..."

She didn't need to say what happened. They both knew.

If Edina could see them now, would she place her gentle hands on their bowed heads—the two people who had loved her most in the world?

"Edina asked me to protect you." He said her name with such tenderness. "Asked me to help you heal. I didn't keep that promise."

"What do you mean?" Minerva's brows furrowed. "Haven't you protected me? Taught me?"

Matsudo's shoulders caved beneath an invisible weight. He'd always appeared old for his age, but the years seemed to crash down like bricks now. "Kozakura ... do you know why you were sent to the front?"

Of course she knew. "My mother wanted me dead. Edina intervened and sent me to you."

"That's the official story." The former general sighed and reached for his pipe with a fumbling hand. His fingers shook as he struck a flame.

Minerva watched with mild surprise—he'd never smoked in her presence before. "And the unofficial story?"

Matsudo sucked on the pipe and exhaled smoke through his nostrils. "Your mother and Edina were trying to find a cure for you. For the hollow place."

Her knuckles popped and turned white from gripping the arms of her chair, but Minerva kept her voice steady. "What do you mean? The hollow place is a part of me. How can it be cured?"

"For the most part, I've only followed orders and don't know the whole story. But I've pieced some of it together." He held up one finger. "First, it's possible to tap into the hollow place without ill effect." Another finger. "Second, this was tested on you and had to do be done outside the empire. However, it failed." Three fingers. "Lastly, it had to be attempted in secret, for the safety of your family."

Kovine hadn't wanted her dead. Hadn't Kaolin as much as told her so? And Minerva hadn't believed her.

"Why—" Minerva worked moisture back into her dry mouth. "Why wasn't I told? Why hasn't anything been done since?" If they'd known how to save her ... if it was even a slim chance ... how could they have given up?

"That would be my fault," Matsudo whispered, looking at his lap. "I was beside myself when Edina died. In the heat of anger, I blamed Kovine. She kept us apart until it was too late—she who was of even lower birth than I.

"The rumors and foundation had already been laid. It was easy to keep you from her. At the time I even considered it essential to protecting you. Kovine herself never resisted me. Maybe she believed it to be for the best as well."

Minerva stood and braced herself against the desk. Her head spun. If this was true, how much hatred had been undeserved? Wasted? Could Matsudo have really painted the Empress in so black a picture that she hadn't recognized her own mother?

She touched the scars on her cheek. Not entirely. Their hatred couldn't be entirely undeserved. "What have you done?" she whispered.

Heat rose in her chest and her eyes burned while she glared at Matsudo. "What happened to my family?"

"I did what I believed must be done," Matsudo answered. "And now I'm making it right. Kovine may still be able to help you. It's possible she never stopped trying."

Minerva's nails bit into desk. The wood smoked like her seething anger. "I think I'd rather die than go to her."

Kovine was a viper. A monster. Even if she'd been conditioned to believe the worst about her mother, that didn't erase the fact that the woman had poisoned their family long before Matsudo snapped their spine.

"Don't let pride—"

She laughed. "Pride? Who in this domestic tragedy hasn't let pride dictate their actions? Kovine? Vren, whose pride got him killed? You?" Minerva spat. "Don't talk to me about bloody pride, Matsudo."

Matsudo stared at her like a man who'd tried to put the family portrait back together, only the glass fractured faster than it could be fixed. "Edina ..."

"She may be the worst of us all. Kept the perfect picture of the Pyrolines together ... until she died and it all fell apart. Pride kept her in denial with me starry-eyed and believing every word." Minerva staggered after striking the fatal blow to both Matsudo and herself. Her image of her family broke beyond repair and left her too numb to cry for it.

Matsudo steadied her with a hand on her shoulder. "There isn't time left for pride. The fourth time you shatter will be the last. Shi. Death. The empire will be going to war soon and you'll be needed."

"Is that why you're telling me to go begging to Kovine?" Minerva snarled, shoving Matsudo away. "Did she promise she'd make you a general again? You two only want me whole so I can raze the battlefield for you. Well, I'm not going to. I'm done being a soldier."

"Minerva." He used her name. Her real name. "I'm sorry for what I forged you into."

She hung her head. Tired. I'm so tired and spent. "There isn't time left to be sorry. We can't change the past," she said quietly.

"If you still want this—" Matsudo handed her the sealed commission scroll.

It held no worth for her, but she accepted it. She'd wanted it more than anything else less than a week ago. "I'll send the boy up to you on my way out," Minerva said, not meeting Matsudo's eyes.

When he pulled out an envelope, Minerva halted in her tracks. The parchment had yellowed and the ink had faded, but she recognized it.

Matsudo gave it to her. "I want you to have this. Read it when you reach the empire's border, not before." His hand clung to it before letting go.

"Alright." Her fingers skimmed over the worn paper, as if it'd fall apart—like everything else that had unraveled around her. "Goodbye, sir."

Minerva didn't tell him she didn't plan on making it there.