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Before Rune can finish, he’s interrupted.

Louder, the lord’s vicious snarl is a shout that strikes through the courtyard like a liquor bomb, “Where is my son?”

The shout draws in nearby attention.

Some glances are fleeting, disinterested, but Daxeel’s father turns a steely look their way.

He starts to move through the crowd towards them.

Disinterested, Daxeel shrugs a shoulder. “Am I to understand Taroh is still missing?”

“The loss of Comlar, I’m sure.” Rune’s monotonous tone drifts some as he turns his attention to the spiral, the constant current of billowing darkness. “How everyone must weep for such a fine male.”

Daxeel can’t fight the twitch of his mouth into a fleeting smirk.

Just as Lord Braxis takes a frantic step closer, as though prepared to scramble into a chaotic, muddled fight that he would certainly lose, Agnar advances. His beefy hand comes down with purpose on the lord’s shoulder—and in contrast, Lord Braxis suddenly looks as frail as a mistreated slave.

The touch stills him instantly, as though every piece of muscle and bone and guts within him freezes over.

That’s all it takes.

No threats or whispered words from the general to the lord, only a firm hand on a slender shoulder.

Lord Braxis retreats with a defeated step back, one that slaps on the stone ground and slumps his posture. “You and that halfbreed whore did something to my boy. I will learn what, and Iwillhave my revenge.”

His litalf truths hold steady.

He believes every word he speaks.

And it’s all he says before he stalks off.

For a beat, Agnar watches him go, eyes scrutinising the crumpled tail of his blue coat. Then a guttural grunt catches in his throat before he turns to slide his sharp, prickling gaze between Daxeel and Rune.

Rune hums a curt sound. The amusement of it all drifts away as he dips a brisk bow at Agnar.

Daxeel doesn’t acknowledge his father beyond a glance that he’s fast to cut away. He swerves it to his mother by the grandstand and lingers for a moment, assessing for any signs of distress or danger.

It’s a mutual indifference.

The warlord has no interest in his son, no desire to know the cause of the lord’s outburst. It was his pride that motivated him to defend his house against the lord. That’s all that was. All it would ever be.

And his interest has fast returned to his wife as he finds her by tracing Daxeel’s concerned gaze.

“How is Melantha?” he asks, a question he can’t ask her himself.

Their arrangement prevents him from approaching her, speaking to her—unless absolutely necessary. They meet only twice a year to soothe the bond and beast within Angar. Beyond that, nothing. And since he is here on warlord business, he is not to stay at Hemlock House, or to attempt a reunion with his evate.

For half the year, every year, they live apart.

Daxeel can’t imagine a worse pain than to be separated from his evate for such lengths of time—and yet, he suffered that torment for a decade. Even if it was pre-bond, it was a piece of his soul shredded every single phase.

It changed him. It fostered a bitterness in him, like mould to a damp windowsill.

Daxeel offers a curt answer, “Both her sons in the Sacrament, the targets of the passages. She is afraid.”

Rune wanders a few steps back, giving them the illusion of privacy.

Daxeel leaves out any mention of Aleana’s ailing health, because if Agnar cared nothing at all for a child of his, it is the babe who came out sickly.