Draven's Point Of View
Standing in front of the bound, shivering wreck of a man, I stared into Arthur's bloodshot, terrified eyes and felt... nothing. No triumph. No rage. Just a hollow silence where I had once imagined a storm would live.
For ten years I had pictured this moment as a reckoning, a fire that would finally consume the ache lodged in my chest since childhood. Now that the moment had arrived, the fire refused to come.
"Draven... please... look at me, Draven!" Arthur wept, his chin quivering violently as water from his soaked, graying hair dripped into his eyes. His fingers twitched uselessly against the leather straps binding him to the chair, as though some part of him still believed he could reach out and touch mercy. "Say something! For the love of God, say something! Don't just stand there staring at me like I'm already dead! I'm your uncle! I'm your father's brother!"
