The next morning, the grand corridors of the estate were crisp and flooded with early winter sunlight. Alaric was walking toward the strategy hall when a sudden shift in the air temperature made him stop.
Floating lazily at eye level, his arms crossed over his chest, was Norx.
The deity's divine body was already completely healed, the heavy purple bruises and clawing marks from the previous day entirely vanished as if they had never existed.
He was narrowing his crimson eyes at the Duke, drifting in a slow, tight circle around Alaric's massive frame like an irritated hornet.
"You told Julian, didn't you?" Norx accused, his raspy voice dropping into a petulant hiss.
Alaric didn't even blink, crossing his own arms over his chest. "Isn't that obvious? Who else would I tell?"
Norx let out a long, dramatic sigh, throwing his head back in midair. This was the absolute worst. Why was this mortal man so fiercely faithful and brutally transparent?
