He felt the prince's gaze before he saw it - that familiar, oppressive weight settling across his shoulders like a mantle of ice. For a brief, defiant moment, Robert met Alpheo's eyes across the hall, his fingers tightening around the stem of his cup until his knuckles turned white. But the prince's stare was unrelenting, a predator's calm assessment of prey that had nowhere left to run.
The old lord was the one to look away first.
With deliberate slowness, he reached for a crust of bread, tearing off a piece with exaggerated care. The action was pure theater - a pathetic attempt to appear composed when every nerve in his body failed him. The bread turned to ash in his mouth, but he chewed mechanically, his eyes fixed on the whorls of the oak table before him.
Then came the scrape of a chair.
The hall's merriment carried on, but not for those who noticed the prince rising from his seat.
