Calithar stood frozen in the center of the council room, the fury in his eyes sharp enough to split stone. His gaze locked on the man standing proudly before the throne: his own brother. His foolish, reckless, vile brother Xavriel.
The audacity of him impersonating the king, sitting on the throne as if it belonged to him. Calithar saw red. But the longer he stared, the colder his blood became.
He truly had done it. He had pretended to be him.
Calithar's jaw clenched. Shock was not something he experienced often, yet here he was with his breath caught in his throat, confusion colliding with disgust.
What unsettled him most wasn't the disguise but the fact that he couldn't sense Xavriel at all.
No scent.
No presence.
No trace of power.
Nothing but a hollow, suffocating emptiness.
Just how corrupted had Xavriel become?
