Drakovitch's gaze shifted toward his son, Draculeus, who still lingered above the stage, his eyes shadowed with guilt. He could feel the weight pressing on him—the disappointment he had caused, the hope he had withheld.
"Son, it's alright if you have not yet decided. To share your blood… to make someone truly one with you… it is not something you give lightly. You cannot force it, nor choose without feeling it in your heart. It must be them. It must be you. It is… like finding a partner in life, a bond that cannot be rushed, only recognized when it is right."
Draculeus blinked, taking in his father's words, the burden on his chest lightening just a fraction. The hall, still tense, seemed to breathe alongside them, the weight of expectation softened by understanding.
