Flint's patriarch took a glass from a passing servant and stopped beside a curtain beyond the room's busiest lane.
He left the wine untouched while Atheron's question followed him, souring all the brittle laughter that resumed behind his back. Acknowledgment would drag his buried history into the light, and denial left his objection to sponsorship without a respectable cause.
'Atheron let me choose, then made sure the throne could keep either answer afterward.'
The stem turned between his fingers as his eldest son approached with far less restraint than any banquet allowed.
"Father," the heir hissed, planting himself beside the curtain without waiting for an invitation, "that argument cost us more than you gained by making it."
He shot a glance at the nearest guests, then flushed when nobody stood close enough to justify the warning.
"You challenged him in front of every house," he went on, wringing his hands beside his coat, "what did you expect him to do, thank you?"
