Dakota shook his head, slow and heavy with sorrow, as though the weight of his thoughts could no longer be borne. His eyes, dulled with a grief too old to name, settled on the young man before him. The boy he had once mentored—the bright, curious prince with fire in his heart and dreams too big for the palace walls—was gone. In his place stood a man carved from ice and steel, unreadable and cold—a stranger.
His eyes shifted to Alaric, who stood tall, composed even as whispers rippled like thunder through the great hall. Yet the prince remained unmoved—serene, dignified. Dakota's heart clenched. He wanted to shield him, but he was old now, a relic in a kingdom that had little use for wisdom of the old.
"Grandfather," he said softly, "thank you for speaking on my behalf. But remember what we agreed upon. " Then Alaric mouthed the words 'Please trust me.'
He turned back toward the dais, every movement deliberate. Then he bowed—deep and respectful.
