Sorza turned his gaze away from the Lord of Epietoli, his mouth set in a line of deep distaste. He had found no leverage there, only the edges of a man who seemed to find the prospect of his own death endearing.
"I am not here to trade insults like a tavern brawler," Sorza said, turning his cold, pale eyes back to the Fox. "I come with terms. Move your host away from my borders. Now. We shall sign a truce, a true peace if you wish it. You do this, and we shall have quiet between our houses. You do not, and you shall have a war that ends only when your halls are ash."
"I recall we had a peace once," Xanthios hooted from behind Alpheo, his voice rasping like dry leaves.
"We had it," Sorza snapped, "until you moved steel onto my land and sent an envoy who carried nothing but lies beneath my roof."
