Over the past few years, he had allowed himself to be influenced by Rocco's innocence, growing far too soft in his judgment.
His duty was to shield Rocco from corruption, to ensure that no filth ever tainted him.
To let his own resolve waver—to let himself be drawn into Rocco's purity—was an unforgivable failure for someone in his position.
And yet, he had willingly taken him into a gathering hosted by Don Ferocelli, a man long suspected of conspiring against the crown.
In hindsight, it was an egregious mistake—one that defied all logic.
Regret clawed at him, fueling the fury that burned in his chest.
Feilu flinched momentarily but soon resigned himself, a look of grim acceptance settling over his features as he bowed his head.
"…I have no excuse. I couldn't bring myself to discard my doubts until it was too late. The blame lies entirely with me."
Sylas's grip on his collar tightened.
The pained expression twisting Feilu's face was unbearable to look at.
