The words struck like poison, but Alaric's composure did not waver. His voice dropped lower, softer, almost gentle—but it carried steel beneath. "You're wrong, Alistair. Father loves you. He has always loved you. He is not the man you paint him to be."
For a moment, a flicker of something crossed Alistair's face. Pain, perhaps. Doubt. But it vanished as quickly as it came, smothered beneath another burst of jagged laughter.
"Stop!" he barked, pointing a trembling finger at Alaric, his voice shaking with rage. "Stop this charade, this pitiful act you call righteousness. You dress yourself in Father's approval, pretending to be the shining heir, the flawless prince. Do not stand there and preach love to me while you bask in everything I was denied!"
