At the same time, in the Royal Palace.
Damien paced his chamber like a rat in a fire trap.
His boots thumped across the marble floor, each step filled with pent-up frustration and a growing sense of doom.
His once-pristine robe now looked like he'd slept in it—twice—and his hair stuck out in wild tufts from repeated runs of his fingers.
"I had no choice… no choice!" He muttered to the empty walls, hands flailing. "Oathworm binding, ancient damn parasite—ugh! Betray the Vaises or melt from the inside out!"
He paused, glaring at a chair as if it had personally insulted him. "And what did His Majesty say? 'Wait.' Just that—wait. Like I'm ordering tea, not waiting for divine retribution from the strongest family in this world!"
He resumed pacing. "He said things would change in a while. What things?! His shoes? His brain? The political map of the capital after I'm turned into ash by Argon?!"
But then, he stopped again.
A cold chill ran down his back.
