Timothee surged forward, propelled by an urgency that left his chair staggering in his wake. Each step was a testament to a storm brewing within him, a tempest uncontainable.
"Who's hurt?" he demanded, his voice a tightrope between control and chaos, his hands balled into fists so tight they threatened to eclipse his strength. The veins at his neck stood out, stark and strained, as if his simmering wrath might escape through every fiber of his being.
"I'm sorry, Lycan. The wounded... are countless," the messenger stammered, his voice a blend of fear and resignation, a stark contrast to the storm that raged in Timothee.
"Then why do you stand here before me, wasting precious moments, when our troops cry out for leadership? How could you be so negligent!" Timothee's rebuke was a whip-crac
