A Quarter of an Hour

King Kessel looked down at Tales in silence.

His gaze was calm and indifferent, and his movements unhurried, utterly different from King Noon's imposing authority and King Chaman's aggressive forcefulness.

Yet that did not make the boy feel any more at ease.

The Prince swallowed and struggled to relax his tensed muscles and frayed nerves.

Until now, Tales had never understood his father.

What kind of person was he?

Cold?

Silent?

Majestic?

Perhaps.

Apart from that experience in the Radiant Star Tomb Chamber, which had been more like a one-sided audience, Tales had spoken fewer than ten sentences in total with Kessel the Fifth.

As for the time they had spent alone together over the past six years... Tales suspected it had amounted to less than a quarter of an hour.

Yet in the boy's limited life, Iron Fist King had been like a dark cloud hanging high overhead—seemingly distant and unreachable, yet casting shadows time and again, enveloping him completely.

Whether it was the National Affairs Conference or the negotiations with Exeter, the Night of Dragon Blood or Court Day in Dragoncloud City, Gilbert's earnest admonitions or the soul-piercing words of One-Eyed Dragon Kosted... countless experiences had constantly reminded Tales from the side:

What kind of person his father was.

But when he truly faced that dark cloud, Tales discovered:

He still was not prepared.

He still did not know... how he should face him.

"You misunderstood."

Tales lowered his head, avoiding those quiet yet unsettling eyes, and took a deep breath.

He tried to dispel the negative emotions he had vaguely sensed within himself, which the King had described with such uncanny accuracy, making them all the more obvious:

"I wasn't anxious. In fact, after leaving Exeter and returning to the kingdom..."

But the King gave him no