Marion sighed, a low, tired sound that spoke less of surprise and more of long-suffering inevitability. He looked at Levan the way one might look at a problem that had finally decided to become worse.
He had known this boy — this man — far too long to mistake the silence for restraint. Levan had always been the quiet one, even as a child, standing just behind the noise of his siblings with that same watchful stillness. But when he chose a direction, he did not bend. He rooted.
He was stubborn in a way that no amount of reason could soften, not when he had already decided he was right. The late Queen had indulged it, of course. Her last-born son. Her quiet storm.
Marion could still remember the way she would smooth a hand over the boy's hair and laugh softly when he refused to yield as though his defiance were something precious instead of dangerous.
It had been easier to manage then.
It was not easier now.
