Aethelstan was too calm, too composed. Yet, so close to snap and bark like a rabid dog, foaming at the mouth with rage and resentment. Aerion was so, so close to make him reach his breaking point. He knew it. [...]

Aerion relished in troubles like a leech feeding from the blood of any creature. Calling Aethelstan a bastard tasted sweetly, even when the poor boy would inherit the throne one day or another. Or maybe never. Hopefully never. [...]

The Ashford tourney was a bore. Aerion had expected little of this event, but by now, he seemed to miss the peace of Summerhall, where no one ever grew astonished of his peculiar taste for trouble. [...]

[ 𝖘𝖍𝖎𝖕𝖕𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖈𝖆𝖑𝖑𝖘 ]

[ 𝖒𝖚𝖘𝖊 ]

"ᴛʜᴇ ᴅʀᴀɢᴏɴ ᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ʟᴏꜱᴇ."