Vorrack's nerve twitched at the old man's words.
"Not this time?" he repeated, his tone flat, a stark departure from his earlier sycophantic demeanor. "Elder, I've been patient enough. And this time, our opponent has chopped off his own feet. We can use his arrogance against him—twist his own words, stir the crowd, and turn the tribe against him."
"But you're telling me now isn't the right time?" He let out a sharp, exasperated breath, his voice heavier than before, edges frayed with barely contained frustration.
Raegon could see through the anger, the shift in his complexion, the growing impatience.
It made his pulse quicken. He tightened his grip on his staff, forcing himself to remain still, to hide the fear coiling in his chest. He knew better than to show weakness. One crack in his composure, and Vorrack would devour him.
