"Father... I'm sorry, but it really doesn't sound like you understand what you're saying," Richard said, his voice tight with disbelief, almost trembling. "That man—he despises you. Not just dislikes you or resents you—he despises every letter of your name with the kind of hatred that scorches the soul. He would rather see all of Jura—the cities, the rivers, the people, the dreams—consumed in fire and ruin, just to cause you the mildest discomfort. Just to watch you wince. That's how deep it goes."
Richard's boots echoed against the marble floor as he took two slow, deliberate steps closer to his father, closing the gap between them until the tension was almost palpable. His eyes were wide, raw with disbelief, as though trying to make sense of a cruel joke.
"And now you're seriously telling me... that man—the man who would rather consort with off-world marauders than even acknowledge your existence—you want him to sit on a throne? To run your empire?"
