Sol's grip on his Void-Oak spear tightened until the petrified wood groaned in protest. The sheer, unadulterated absurdity of Elder Thorne's words felt like physical poison in his ears.
Talented? Forgiving? Understanding? Prince Gorr seemed like a rotting tyrant whose very aura killed the grass beneath his boots. He looked at the Veynar tribe not as allies, but as a harvest, and he was currently demanding a sweet, harmless serving girl as a human sacrifice to stroke his own grotesque ego.
Sol took a deep breath, his chest expanding as he prepared to step forward, to shatter the pathetic illusion Thorne was weaving and call the Zharun Prince exactly what he was. He had the power. He had the Lord spirits. He could easily drive the butt of his spear through Gorr's bone armor and end the threat right here, right now.
But as he opened his mouth, his silver-crimson eyes locked onto Lumi.
