The air was thick with tension as King Eroan dismounted his pristine white steed, each movement deliberate, oozing an almost theatrical sense of superiority. Luke's eyes darted from the king to Ilyrana, whose usually composed face was now painted with a mix of disbelief and anger.
This wasn't right.
The man standing before them was not King Vesryn, the ruler Ilyrana had spoken of, nor the father she had hoped to face after nearly a year in exile. Instead, they were confronted by someone entirely different.
"Wasn't your father supposed to be...?" Luke whispered, leaning slightly toward Ilyrana, who remained rigid and unmoving.
Without looking at him, she reached out and pulled Luke closer by the sleeve.
"Not here," she hissed softly, her voice strained. Then, as if weighing her options, she motioned for him to lean closer and whispered. "That's Eroan."
"Eroan?" Luke repeated, brow furrowed.
