Maelor's breath slowed, the golden mana along his scabbard gradually receding as he processed Jack's words.
The King turned his gaze toward the center of the hall, looking upon Rhys for the first time since the slaughter had begun.
Rhys stood amidst the blood and shattered stone, his posture tall and straight as if the massacre was nothing new to him.
For decades, the silence between father and son had been an ocean of political compromise.
Maelor had looked away when Rhys was beaten in the academy yards; Maelor had signed the decrees that denied Rhys the royal surname to appease the eight votes Morvana controlled on the Council.
Rhys met his father's eyes.
There was no rage in the young prince's expression, no petty vindication, and no childish resentment. There was only the cold, unyielding maturity of a man who had walked through the fires of the Spire, fought Disaster-class sentinels in the deeps, and emerged on the other side as an undisputed master of his own destiny.
