Drakovitch looked down at the huddle of broken men, and for a rare moment, the cold certainty in his eyes wavered. He shared a silent, sharp glance with Morgant. In that single look, a quiet realization passed between them. These weren't the masterminds who had conspired with the demigods.
Drakovitch tightened his hand on the arm of his throne. He thought,
"They didn't betray me for power. They betrayed me for their mothers, their sisters… for his daughter. For fathers lost, and for lives claimed by the war… They were driven by a love I reduced to a casualty of war."
He looked at Luavier's shaking shoulders. He knew the world saw him as a tyrant, and in this moment, he didn't even try to argue with the reflection in their eyes. The Dragonborn Restoration was a monstrosity—a cold, mechanical harvesting of life to ensure the survival of a species. It was a factory of flesh, and he was its architect.
"But what else could I have done?"
