[He was far too angry to feel guilty about something he wouldn't do for another two decades. This time he barely dodged the knife, which was something of a mistake as it barely caught the lobe of his ear and, like any head wound, it immediately started bleeding profusely despite the cut being small and shallow.
He didn't say anything, but Ivar's words stung. A lot. He didn't hate Ivar. How could he? He was his son. He loved him.]
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He didn't say anything, but Ivar's words stung. A lot. He didn't hate Ivar. How could he? He was his son. He loved him.]