The following morning Barak woke to a different kind of vertigo. A pounding, jackhammer headache was the first sensation, followed by a dry, coppery taste in his mouth. He groaned, pushing himself up on his elbows, his vision blurry. Then, his blood ran cold.
There, seated in a high-backed chair in the corner of his opulent bedroom, was a figure that should not have been there. The morning light streaming through the tall windows illuminated his father, Azariah Raizen. The Patriarch was not looking out at the gardens or inspecting the room. His chilling, golden eyes were fixed directly on his son.
