"You could have stood beside us when this moment came," Vellok said, voice low and sharp. "But you wouldn't listen. And now—now your grand ideas, your noble little crusade, it's all turned against you. Instead of shaping the war, you'll be its instrument. A pawn, dancing across the battlefield for the glory of others."
He tapped the iron shackle clasped around Kaelen's wrist. A small clang echoed through the room. Reflexively, Kaelen tensed, his muscles coiling but instinct took over immediately as he calmed down. Sweat clung to his back, cold and sudden, as his gaze locked with Vellok's.
Golden light pulsed from Vellok's eyes—unblinking, alien, and full of quiet fury. Kaelen held the gaze for only a moment before looking away. He hated himself for that.
The Emperor stepped forward, resting a hand gently on Vellok's shoulder as if to steady a weapon not yet unsheathed. His expression was composed, almost weary, as he regarded Kaelen.
