"The price?" I challenged, my voice ringing with a defiance I could no longer contain. I refused to be cowed, to be treated like a reckless child who had broken a priceless vase. "The price was preventing your aunt from installing a puppet and undermining your authority while you were gone. It was protecting what is ours."
Darius didn't flinch. He didn't rise to the bait of my anger. Instead, a look of profound, almost clinical disappointment settled over his features. It was worse than fury. It was the quiet, dismissive assessment of a master craftsman who has just witnessed an apprentice use a priceless tool to smash a rock.
"Protecting?" he repeated, his voice soft, dangerously soft. He began to walk a slow, deliberate circle around me, "You call this chaos protection? You call this public spectacle a defense?" He stopped behind me, so close I could feel the warmth radiating from his body, a stark contrast to the icy chill of his words.
