His hands trembled, his voice low and weathered. "Margie, I feel old—suddenly so tired!" His fingers unconsciously traced the scars on his wrist, his once eagle-sharp eyes now veiled in shadow. Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, painting his silver-gray suit in colorful hues, yet it couldn't dispel the aura of decay clinging to him.
"The ones truly exhausted are my parents. They suffered for love, endured life and death, bore curses, and scoured the world every few years for traces of me and Bevis. That kind of weariness is far more desolate, more despairing than any power struggle." My voice rose unbidden, the scepter's gem flaring brilliantly, mirroring my emotions. Images of my parents' haggard faces and bloodshot eyes surfaced in my mind, an invisible hand squeezing my chest.
