Behind the cold obsidian of his mask, Rex allowed himself a flicker of dark amusement. 'Technically true, utterly infuriating, and perfectly ambiguous.'
It was a masterpiece of linguistic manipulation. He watched the immediate fallout: the way the Aethelgard soldiers' grip tightened on their spears, the way their eyes darted with newfound suspicion.
He had given them exactly what they needed to fuel their righteous fury: a confirmation of guilt wrapped in a shroud of plausible deniability.
But then, the fragile equilibrium of the standoff shattered.
Mordecai Vrael chose that exact moment to break.
He stepped forward, stumbling half a pace past the protective flanks of Cassandra and Gorvasha.
His movement was clumsy, lacking the lethal grace of the others, and his voice when it finally came was pitched higher than Rex's, cracking with a genuine, desperate distress that cut through the oppressive silence.
