"...Welcome, dear nephew."
Robin leaned back on his throne, a mocking smile curling across his lips as his gaze settled on Kristan. The sight before him was almost absurd.
By the order of age, Kristan was supposed to be decades younger, maybe centuries, yet he stood there with a long, unkempt mane streaked black and white, a beard equally wild, and eyes burning with a feverish madness. His garments were filthy and his bearing was that of a crazed vagrant dragged in from some alleyway.
Nothing about him suggested high status—or the sharp, monstrous intellect Robin knew all too well lurked within him.
Kristan hesitated for several seconds, his body trembling slightly as though preparing his spirit for a clash. Then, slowly, he turned to face Robin. His voice was heavy, each word laced with venom. "...Greetings, to the one who murdered my mother."
