Made to bow, Varquess's fingers bit at his clenched fists. He wanted to scream to curse, but before his Lady, he could only force a smile. He had offered his everything to the hells. His soul, his body, and his pride. And now it seemed even the kingdom he desired was falling through his fingers like sand.
"Kingslayer," Altair spoke up, measuring the man in a sort of different light. The last time he had seen him, he seemed so insurmountable, annihilating Forwin in a single stroke of his sword. Now? Now, he seemed small. He could smell the stench of the hells upon him. Eating away at his body and soul.
'What was a man without a soul?' he wondered, unable to even pretend what was before him was a king. Altair could not deny Varquess was powerful. But was simply being powerful enough to be a king?
Where was his regal might? His poised eyes? The mere image of the man made him sick.
