Daeron Stormborne did not leave the dining hall angry.
Anger was loud. Anger was careless. Anger was for men who had already lost.
He left amused.
The doors closed behind him with a dull, echoing thud, and only then did his lips curve—not into a smile, but into something far more deliberate.
A predator's satisfaction. The kind that came from realizing the game had finally become interesting again. For years, Daeron Stormborne had lived in a state of exquisite boredom.
He played his role well—the charming, disinterested prince. The brother who laughed too easily, drank too much, and cared too little. The man who had learned, after one spectacular failure, to never again appear ambitious..
Since the night his rebellion had burned itself into ash beneath Valerian's wrath, Daeron had perfected restraint.
That night had nearly cost him his life.
