CRASH.
Shards of white ceramic scattered across the tiles, catching the light, reflecting the stunned expression on his face.
"What—" August's hand shot out, grabbing Arkai's wrist, pulling his hands up, checking for cuts or blood, for anything that would explain why his son was standing frozen in a kitchen full of broken dishes with his jaw on the floor. "Hey, are you okay? Are you hurt?"
Arkai could not speak. His mind was racing, spinning, trying to fit this new knowledge into the shape of his father that he had carried his whole life.
The man who had been strict and proper, who had been August Dawnoro in every way that mattered—
"Father…" The word came out weak. Almost breathless. He never knew that!
Not even in the real world!
In neither life had his father told him this!
This man—
Arkai's mind was racing, turning.
