Conrad's hands trembled as he prepared to strike. I could see the torment in his eyes—a father forced to choose between honor and his son's life. The air crackled with his concentrated power.
I closed my eyes, accepting what was coming. My body was too drained to mount any meaningful defense.
"I'm sorry," Conrad whispered, his voice breaking.
Just as his attack was about to land, the door burst open.
"STOP!"
The voice cut through the tension like a blade. I opened my eyes to see Eamon Greene standing in the doorway, his expression grim. In his arms lay a limp figure—Miles Thornton.
Conrad's attack halted mid-motion. His face drained of color as he stared at his son's motionless body.
"Miles?" His voice was barely a whisper. "MILES!"
Conrad abandoned his attack and rushed to his son, taking the limp body from Eamon's arms. Miles's skin was deathly pale, his lips tinged blue. No breath moved his chest.
"What happened?" Conrad demanded, cradling his son's face.
