Elyos's eyes darkened, his gaze sharpening into a dagger's point as he locked onto Alpheo, unblinking. The air between them hung heavy with disdain and something colder—disgust, perhaps, or the dying embers of what once was idealism.
His lips parted with a quiet venom.
"Is there truly know no limit to your treachery?"
Alpheo tilted his head, brows arching with an almost boyish confusion, as if Elyos had just accused him of stealing sweetcakes. "Treachery?" he echoed, blinking once, slowly. "You'll have to clarify, priest. Because if you're talking about evil, I do wonder what precisely you're accusing me of."
He raised a hand casually, gesturing around them as if the very earth outside the tent bore witness to his innocence. "I captured rebels, Elyos. Men who spat on their oaths and beckoned foreign swords into our soil. I defeated them, as any prince ought.
