At the edge of the chaos, the warriors of House Citrineclaw stood perfectly still. Their brownish orange capes didn't have a single speck of dust.
"Arteè! We have to move!"
One of his kin hissed, gripping a bladed gauntlet.
"The Prince won't choose us if we just stand here like statues! The other Houses are actually making him sweat!"
Arteè did not look away from the fight. He adjusted his glasses, the sunlight reflecting off the lenses.
"Patience is a weapon, you fool. Elegance is not about being first; it is about being final."
He pointed a sharp finger toward Draculeus' shoulder, where a tiny, dull mark had appeared on the sapphire scales.
"Look at the weapons we carry. Do you know why they are black? Why they do not reflect the light? Because they are forged with the dried Blood of Tiamat. They do not care about magic. They do not care about 'impenetrable' defense. These blades deal true damage. They ignore the divinity of a Dragonborn."
