Alaric stood at the door with his grip tight on the hilt of his sword. The air in the hallway beyond was thick and heavy, carrying the unmistakable scent of his father's aggression through the wood like smoke under a closed door. It was a smell Alaric had known since childhood.
Cold authority. The kind that did not ask and did not wait.
To anyone else standing in that room, Alaric looked exactly like what the situation called for. A prince on edge. A man desperate to protect something he was afraid of losing. His shoulders were set hard, his jaw was locked, and everything about his posture said that he was bracing himself for something painful.
But Silas was not anyone else.
As Alaric moved to step out, Silas reached forward and caught the edge of his sleeve between his fingers. It was a light touch, barely anything at all, but Alaric stopped as though he had walked into a wall.
"Alaric," Silas said quietly. "Wait."
