*Clack-clack-clack.
The sound was faint at first, a sharp, metallic rhythm that cut straight through the thick mahogany air of the reception hall like a tiny n
eedle piercing silk.
*Rattle, rattle, rattle...
The casual banter dying in everyone's throats. Heads turned across every quadrant of the room. Roko paused mid-chuckle, his bald head reflecting the flickering hearth fire as his brow furrowed. Hono's hand froze near the hilt of his slender rapier.
The sound was coming from the Southern corner.
The shrouded, masked figure—the silent, unyielding monolith who had not shifted an inch since entering the capital—was shaking. More accurately, it was not the man himself, but the long, black-iron scabbard slung at his hip. The dark steel was vibrating furiously against its leather harness, the crossguard hammering against the mouth of the sheath in an erratic, violently trembling cadence.
*Rattle, rattle, rattle!
