The ancient demi-human stepped forward, each movement so fluid it seemed the world bent to let him pass. His presence alone thickened the air, as though the land itself bowed.
"I faced your father once," Dythrael said. "Did you know?"
Lindarion froze, his throat tightening despite himself.
"I went to him with his crown and his fury," Dythrael continued, voice like silk wrapping barbs. "He bled well. He screamed better. But in the end—" Those silver eyes sharpened. "He crawled away without his arm."
The world tilted. Lindarion's breath caught, chest clenching around a weight heavier than the sword. His father, broken, maimed, and he hadn't been there.
The shadows surged in him, a storm clawing to be unleashed.
Dythrael's smile widened at the flicker of rage. "Ah. You didn't know every detail. How sweet. To think the mighty prince of Eldorath fights blind, while the world burns at his feet."
