Lorraine stood quietly by his side, watching the way Leroy's gaze remained fixed on the window. Her voice hadn't reached him, not yet. He looked as if he were staring through the glass, past the world outside, into some place far away where words could not follow.
She could only imagine the storm beneath that still exterior. He had grown up as a prince of Kaltharion, sent as a hostage to Vaeloria to save his homeland, endured years of humiliation at the hands of Vaelorian ministers and the Dravenholt family. He had been torn from his family, sent to the battlefield for nine relentless years, not for his glory, not for his name, but to bear the weight of another empire's shame.
And now… all this time, he had been one of them. A Dravenholt. Not just any son, but the heir—the one born with the mark. The rightful heir of the Dragon and the Lion.
