The cold stone beneath his knees was unforgiving, a stark contrast to the warmth of the torches lining the grand hall. His breath came ragged, his fingers curling into fists against the marble. He had lost. He had lost.
And she—she stood above him, the dim firelight catching in her dark hair, her sharp eyes locked onto his with a quiet, brutal certainty. No trace of warmth, no hesitation.
"You lost, brother."
Her voice was calm. Unfeeling. It wasn't a taunt, nor was it pity. It was simply fact.
His breath caught, rage burning through his veins, deeper than the bruises blooming across his body. His jaw clenched, his teeth bared like a cornered animal.
"Don't call me brother, you whore."
The words left his lips in a snap, venomous and cruel.
Then—
"Linston! Mind your words!"
A voice thundered through the chamber, sending a hush rippling across the gathered nobles.
Linston's head whipped toward the sound, his anger twisting into something frantic, something desperate.
