The King of Northem cast one last lingering glance at the son he had fathered with his first and true love. He waited—not with hope, but with a shadow of expectation—for his son to break, to plead, to beg for the parchment that would strip him of all claim to the throne.
But Alaric did none of these.
He stood still, unmoving, calm as a winter lake untouched by even the whisper of a breeze. His features betrayed no turmoil, no trace of desperation. If anything, he looked...at peace. As though this moment, this surrender, had been of his own design all along. When their eyes met, the king found no sorrow there—only the cool indifference of a man who had long stopped waiting for his father to see him.
Was this the same boy who once chased his approval like sunlight? Who once lit up with joy at a kind word, who once bent and broke himself to please? Heimdal's heart twisted in his chest. Where was that boy now?
