"I think I didn't hear you well—" Dante's crimson eyes narrowed into slits, his voice laced with venom.
"I don't know what I did for you to give off such murderous intent," Azel replied, his tone deceptively casual.
A faint smirk tugged at his lips as he leaned back in his chair. "But let's settle it with a duel. Unless…" his eyes sharpened, "you're scared of losing to a kid."
The words cracked like ice.
To anyone else in the room, the challenge sounded bratty — reckless arrogance from a boy who didn't know his place.
But Azariah, Patriarch of Winter and head of the Winters bloodline, saw deeper.
His eyes flickered with faint amusement.
'He's not reckless. He's probing. He intends to use the goddess's gift…'
"If that is what you wish for, then go ahead," Azariah said calmly.
But inwardly his thoughts shifted uneasily.
Dante's venom was unnatural, almost obsessive, like he wanted his son dead.
