The air in the arena was thick enough to choke on.
Lucian stared at the phantom of his father. His whole body went still, not with fear, but with a tension that made the space around him feel brittle. Althea could see it—the way his hands clenched, the slight narrowing of his eyes.
He took a slow step forward, placing himself slightly in front of Althea.
The phantom—Alistair—watched him, that stern face showing a flicker of something that might have been amusement. Or pity.
"You don't have to get ready," Alistair said. His voice echoed in the vast space, calm and conversational. "I'm not the enemy."
Lucian's reply was flat. "You've never been anything else."
"That's not true," Alistair said, and he sounded almost tired. "I was your father."
"You were a monster."
