The words of the Third Prince were like a lash to Vyraak's soul; hard-earned triumphs began to seem like manipulation by a hand he had never seen.
He, Vyraak, the Dragon God, was a beast of burden. A cosmic fool. A delivery system.
His head drooped, the horns that had gored Demon Lords now pointing impotently at the non-ground. The shimmering, impossible grandeur of the Palace of Time seemed to mock him, a prize he was never meant to claim, only to deliver.
The warm, familiar weight of the Red Moonlight Blade against his side was no longer a comfort. It was a leash. The shame he felt at this moment was a physical sickness.
The Third Prince watched, his expression one of detached, almost clinical pity. He could not feel empathy, but his powerful mind understood everything that was happening down to the smallest detail, and he did not want to miss a thing.
