Alistair clapped his hands once, amused beyond measure. "Oh, brilliant. Truly, brother, if you don't allow him, I might drag him along myself simply for the entertainment."
"You will do no such thing," Alaric snapped, his voice laced with steel. His gaze returned to Lucian, unyielding. "Your presence corrupts. Your tongue poisons. You twist with every breath. I will not have it beside me when blades are drawn."
Lucian's smile thinned, but his voice remained calm. "I twist, yes. But I twist toward survival. Would you rather I lay straight and be broken?"
For a heartbeat, something flickered in Alaric's expression—memory, maybe, of another fragile figure who had broken too soon. But just as quickly, the cold mask returned.
"You mistake clever words for worth," the crown prince said, tone colder than frost. "This is not your place. You will remain behind."
