Marlon's back went rigid. A chill raced down his spine at the sound of her voice—sharp, brittle, and devoid of the warmth a woman's tone might normally carry. There was no kindness, no softness—only ice and long-nurtured resentment.
For a breathless moment, he stood frozen, as if the air itself had turned to stone. His courage faltered. He couldn't bring himself to turn around, afraid of what would greet him in her eyes—memories, judgment, perhaps even hatred.
"I…" he stammered, his voice barely a whisper. What words could possibly undo the past? What balm could soothe the wounds left by betrayal? Odin and his children had suffered, and no apology could erase that truth.
"I came to ask for forgiveness," he finally managed, forcing the words past the guilt lodged in his throat. He gathered what strength remained and turned to face the niece he had betrayed four years ago.
