"So you're the one who should clean up this mess."
Orson's snort was cold as steel. He studied Oliver's face. The kid looked a lot like his mother. To be fair, the brat was maybe a touch better-looking than him. What truly prickled Orson, though, was the scent of an old rival clinging to every move the boy made. The bow work, the stance, the pride that could split the sky—he was Usher's echo through and through.
My son looks like someone else?
That, more than anything, annoyed him.
Usher had once said that when they met again, Earth would witness a duel for the ages. Both men had known the gulf in power back then. Even now, with Orson ascended, he still longed for that clash.
He just hadn't expected it to begin like this—through Usher's own hand, with a glorious turncoat of a prodigy raised in opposition. A peerless archer with iron bones and a gaze full of vengeance for his own father.
