Robert's breath came fast and uneven, each inhale sharp as a dagger's edge, his chest rising and falling like a trapped animal's. His fingers clawed into the table's edge, knuckles bleaching to bone-white, as if the solid oak could anchor him against the tide of dread rising in his throat.
Alpheo watched him.
Not just looked—studied. The way Robert's pupils dilated, black swallowing blue. The sweat beading along his temple, tracing the same path it had two years ago, when he'd last knelt before him, begging for a mercy for someone that was not him.
The same trembling. The same silent pleading hidden behind forced composure.
If he'd done it once, he would do it again.
"My son—" Robert's voice shattered like dry parchment, hoarse with the weight of a father's terror. "He had no part in this. He was loyal. He did not condone my actions. He serves under your banner—his troops march at your command."
Alpheo let the silence fester.
