"What do you want?" Lancelot's voice came out low, controlled, but every syllable dripped with venom.
He stood in the doorway of his quarters, one arm braced against the frame, the other crossed over his chest like armor. His posture was relaxed on the surface, but his muscles were tense—ready to react. His golden-orange eyes narrowed sharply at the man standing before him.
Alexandrius.
His father.
Lancelot hadn't seen him—hadn't spoken to him—since the infamous ball. The same night his father tried to publicly humiliate him, sneering about his choices, mocking his failure to become the man Alexandrius envisioned. It wasn't a confrontation; it had been an execution of character.
So seeing the Duke standing here, now, unannounced and uninvited, set his teeth on edge.
'What does he want now? More insults? A reminder that I'll never be good enough?'
The familiar sneer was gone, though. Alexandrius was calm. Controlled. That made it worse.
"Your mother is dying."
