The air in the Expanse seemed to freeze, thick with the metallic tang of raw mana and the sharp scent of adrenaline. The newcomers—five hunters in mismatched gear, their faces cycling through confusion toward dawning anger—stared at Zeke's announcement like he'd just declared the sky green.
One of them, a burly man with a scar running down his cheek, stepped forward, knuckles whitening around the hilt of a chipped broadsword. "You think this is funny, kid?"
"Not really," Zeke said, his voice easy. "I think it's efficient."
Before Scar-Cheek could move, a calm, resonant voice cut through the tension. "Stand down, Joran."
