Leandros's comprehension deepened. He was beginning to understand that this was not simply about power.
This was about intelligence, calculation, and the willingness to leverage personal information.
Rhys turned to face Miriame.
She stood alone now in the water that had risen to shoulder height. Sylvia was bleeding and incapacitated, her body barely holding itself at the surface of the liquid.
Bastian had surrendered. The water was slowing Miriame's movements to quarter speed at best.
She was alone against Rhys in an arena designed entirely to his specifications.
Rhys's eyes moved to Leandros.
He smiled.
Not a smile of triumph. Not a smile of joy. A smile of cold certainty.
A smile that communicated comprehension and intent. A smile that Rhys understood exactly what he was about to do and that he found satisfaction in the prospect of doing it.
The smile was a weapon. It was directed at Leandros. It was communication that did not require words.
