I glanced at Alistair's weathered face as he recounted yet another tale of Alaric's mischievous youth. His eyes crinkled with amusement, the warmth in his voice unmistakable.
"You should have seen him, Your Grace," Alistair continued, chuckling softly. "Barely ten years old, covered head to toe in mud, and still insisting he hadn't been anywhere near the frog pond."
"I maintain my innocence to this day," Alaric interjected, his expression mock-serious. "The mud simply appeared on me. Most mysterious."
I laughed, picturing a small, defiant Alaric standing before a younger Alistair. "And you believed him?"
"Not for a moment," Alistair replied. "But I did admire his commitment to the lie."
As our laughter subsided, a question that had been lingering in my mind for months finally found its voice. "Alistair, may I ask you something personal?"
He straightened slightly in his chair. "Of course, Your Grace."
