"I don't care what you think. Do I look like a fucking demon to you?" Arathor snapped, his voice booming like thunder barely held back by skin. His fingers curled into a fist, trembling, massive, and dangerous.
He was just about to strike Sylvaris's mother. Once again. Then, without a word, Aureve stepped forward. His second wife. The one who always lingered at the edge of storms.
She caught his wrist.
"Darling, calm down," she said softly — too softly — her voice the only shield between wrath and disaster. "Sister didn't mean anything by it... right, Elvanya?"
Her eyes screamed louder than her words.
Say something. Apologize. Save yourself. Before it's too late.
Because Arathor had a temper that no crown could contain. He'd burned generals for lesser slights. And every time that fury rose, it came with the same excuse:
Sylvaris.
