The sharp, metallic hiss that tore through the chaos came from the foreign apothecary’s swinging bronze censer, striking the flagstones and spilling hot charcoal embers into the velvet runner.
Every breath in the Great Feast Hall was caught in paralyzed suspense.
King Kaelen remained rooted before the dais like an ancient monolith, his left hand clamping Warlord Varek’s armored throat in a vice of unyielding muscle. The shattered shards of Varek's iron blade lay smoking upon the stones where Kaelen had snapped them bare-handed. Kaelen’s midnight-black velvet doublet strained against his broad back, his platinum chains catching the flare of spilled embers. His golden eyes burned with incandescent royal dominance, the claws on his fingertips biting into the warlord's thick skin just enough
