If the Erudian Empire were a ship, albeit a rather large and impressive warship, it would have sprung a leak in its hull at the moment.
The boiling rage within my father does not erupt, but the chained prisoner on the ground before us begins to choke and hack up clots of black blood until Harold drags him further back near where the generals and commanders stand.
"Save him!" yells, not my father but the Mad Dog. Sir Wolfgang puts pressure on the bleeding wound with his hand and turns to look at me.
And it's not just him, everyone turns to stare, some eyes begging, some curious, some wishing to see a miracle for themselves. And they do, in a way.
Right as I stand from my chair, I see my father's arm extend towards me from the periphery. It moves faster than a whip, his hand before my face before I can so much as flinch. Clenched between his fingers is a blade as slender as a piece of paper.
