Nothing happened. The Dar spoke no word, but Voran did not dare move until the Dar released him.
Something metal clanged on the floor. Voran looked up in alarm, thinking the Dar had fallen. The first thing his eye glanced on was the ancient crown wrought by the smiths of Dar Cassían’s rein almost five hundred years ago—cloudy silver with white-gold flowers blooming. It was on the ground. The Dar had thrown it down. His eyes were brimming with tears.
“Highness,” whispered Voran in shock.
“My son,” the Dar said, voice broken by a sob. “How you remind me of your father. He was so sure of himself, so brazen. Until the time for penitence. Then he was a lamb. How I miss him.”
Voran stood up and ran forward. He grasped the Dar’s outstretched forearms as he began to go down on his own two knee
