"You were lucky you survived."
Dominic's eyes narrowed. "You say that like you had it easier."
Kael barked a short laugh, sharp and self-deprecating. "Me? Hell no. My old man ran me through the Crucible Trials before I was twelve. You know how many failed that year?"
"All of them," Dominic said, deadpan.
"Exactly. Which made it worse." Kael drained the rest of his glass. "He said it would 'build contrast.' So I'd learn to spot strength by knowing the exact sound of its absence."
Dominic raised a brow. "That's poetic."
"It's trauma."
The silence after that wasn't awkward—it was layered. Shared.
They both came from dynasties that forged monsters instead of sons. And yet, here they were—holding drinks instead of weapons, talking not about power, but about a kid who might just surpass them both.
Kael leaned forward again, resting both arms on his knees, gaze now fixed.
Kael's gaze sharpened slightly.
