The King looked pleased with himself.
He smiled, showing his perfect white teeth. “And you are Michael, son of Isaiah, are you not?” he asked.
I looked at Michael and saw him clench his fists. He took a deep breath and eased his hands. When he spoke, his face was clear and void of expression. “Yes, King Nudd. I am the son of Isaiah Riverwoods.”
“That much I gathered. The resemblance is uncanny. You have your father’s eyes.”
“Forgive me, King Nudd, but we did not come here to talk about my father nor his eyes. Me and my friends came here for a reason. I believe that you know why.”
“I see you did not inherit your father’s sweet tongue. What a pity. Here I thought I would be graced by the Riverwoods’ flair for the dramatic,” the Elven King said. He drew his right hand from under his gr
