“You always hit the sore spots, like you trained for it your whole worthless life,” Vaytus thought bitterly, and with all his might hurled a crystal tumbler straight at the wall. The ringing crash of shattering glass echoed through the spacious office. Vaytus didn’t care about the ruined interior—he was breathing heavily, standing in the middle of the room, clenching his fists with such force that his nails dug into his skin, almost to the point of blood. The young aristocrat had just lost his political debate with a resounding failure. He had hoped for his family’s support, but his own father hadn’t missed a chance to publicly crush his son.
And now the Lord-Father sat in a leather chair opposite. He folded his hands like a dome and regarded his heir with unmistakable contempt. His face, carved with deep wrinkles, remained stone-cold and unreadable.