Alpheo allowed himself the best gloating he could ever have had at the sight before him. Sorza's mask, so carefully worn since the beginning of the talks, had begun to crack.
Anxiety flickered across his rival's features as he realized that his finely crafted role of the victimized prince was slipping through his fingers.
Until now, Sorza had believed his task simple: to paint himself as the aggrieved lamb, to cast Alpheo as the ravenous wolf, and to drown the gathering in accusations and demands under the guise of "peace."
But one look at the envoys was enough to tell him that the ground beneath him had shifted. The air of sympathy he had so carefully fostered was beginning to unravel, thread by thread, before his very eyes.
Still, pride and desperation drove him to speak. He opened his mouth, faltered, grimaced, then turned stiffly toward Shaza.
"May I answer?" he asked, his tone strained.
