Alaric reached out for the glass of wine and swirled the red liquid inside—but not to drink. He simply held it, cradled in both hands, staring into the blood-red depths as if it might answer all the questions neither of them had dared ask aloud.
"You lost her," Alaric said. "And in some way… so did I. But I didn't lose her all at once. I lost her in pieces. Every time you looked through me. Every time I wasn't invited to court or celebrations or even to sit by your side."
Heimdal flinched. It was obvious that his words hit their mark. Alaric paused. His voice did not rise. There was no fury now. Only the strange, steady numbness had settled like ash on his heart.
"I became strong because you forced me to be. And cold, because that was safer than hoping." Alaric's voice was flat, emotionless.
Silence stretched between them like a taut thread. "I don't know if I can forgive you," he said finally. "Not yet."
He saw the flinch in his father's eyes. Just a flicker, but it was there.
