Azarion did not move.
For several long moments, he stood as though carved from obsidian, the firelight painting sharp lines across his face. The uncertainty Aldric had glimpsed was fleeting—but it had been real.
"Strength," Azarion repeated slowly, tasting the word.
The flames in the hearth settled into a lower burn, no longer flaring in response to his temper but listening now, as if waiting for command.
"You're suggesting the prophecy is not about balance," Azarion said, "but supremacy."
Aldric nodded once. "Yes."
"You think," Azarion said at last, his voice measured, "that I have overlooked something."
"I think," Aldric replied, choosing each word with care, "that you may have misunderstood the prophecy."
Azarion turned toward him fully now, the firelight sharpening the planes of his face.
"What is it that I misunderstood? Explain clearly."
