Theron's grip tightened around the man's throat until the man's feet barely touched the ground. His nails dug into the flesh of his own palm as anger surged through him, hot and uncontrollable.
For years, he had remained in Greenvale, doing exactly what was expected of him. He trained relentlessly, studied statecraft, endured endless lessons and discipline so that one day he could stand as a prince capable of ruling a kingdom.
But his thoughts had never truly left Aurelmont.
And they had never left Aveline.
When the sun rose in the early mornings of Greenvale, he often remembered how she used to wake him as a child—sometimes by throwing water on him, sometimes by pulling the blanket off him and declaring that boys who slept too long deserved to starve. When the evenings came, and he finally sat down to eat after a long day of studies, he would remember the way she used to sneak into the kitchen and steal food from his plate, pretending innocence while crumbs betrayed her.
