The tension hung thick in the air — a storm waiting to break. Father and son stood face to face, eyes locked, each daring the other to make the first move. The urge to rip the other's throat out burned behind both their stares.
"Aren't you getting a little too arrogant?" Arathor said, voice cold and low.
He didn't flinch. He'd seen this before — not once, not twice. Every time he hit Sylvaris's mother, the boy would come charging in, ready to throw his life away in some childish duel to the death. And every time, he lost. Spared. Too young. Too weak. And today? In Arathor's heart, there were no exceptions.
"There's so much arrogance in me, you can't even imagine," Sylvaris said, his voice sharp as the edge of a blade. "But Father… a man who raises his hand against women? That's less than scum. Didn't you teach me that when I was a boy? What changed? Got too old? Can't pretend anymore?"
With a cold whisper of steel, his sword left its sheath.
