For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Valerian remained where he was, hands braced against the table, shoulders rigid as stone.
The storm outside answered the one inside him—thunder rolling low and angry, lightning tearing through the sky as rain battered the high windows of the solar.
Soren leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, watching his brother carefully.
He had seen Valerian furious before. Seen him being cold. Seen him being ruthless, and calculating.
But hum bring like this—this restless, volatile tension—was something else entirely.
"You're going to destroy the table if you keep gripping it like that," Soren said finally, his voice quiet but steady.
Valerian did not look at him, but he sighed all the same.
"I don't feel right," Valerian said slowly, each word dragged out as though spoken through resistance. "Something is wrong. I know it is, but I can't seem to figure it out."
Soren straightened.
"Wrong how?"
