A single tear escaped the corner of his eye and slid down his cheek, cutting through the dirt and sweat. The quiet sincerity in his voice was heavier than any scream.
Alaric's fingers trembled against the collar of Zevryn. The anger that had driven him moments before waned, replaced by a pang in his chest.
For a moment, he did not look upon the Emperor standing before him. He saw the boy from years past, the young Zevryn who had nervously approached him, cheeks flushed, to admit that he loved Liliath and wished to make her his wife.
He recalled how he'd punched him when he was a boy too. Zevryn hadn't struck back, hadn't even moved his head. He had remained there, battered but resolute, because Alaric's approval meant everything to liliath, and thus to Zevryn.
