The verbal assault escalated with the speed of a spreading wildfire. Accusations became projectiles, hurled across the narrow gap between the two armies with venomous intent.
Voices rose in a cacophony of rage: soldiers from Aethelgard shouted about duty and law, while the Underlayer warriors roared back with curses that spoke of centuries of accumulated hatred.
The temperature of the confrontation didn't just rise; it became molten. On both flanks, the scrape of leather against armor and the creak of tightened sword hilts echoed through the stone passage as men prepared to die.
Apollo Brightsoul watched it all, his golden eyes tracking the movement of every tense muscle and every trembling finger. He let the chaos reign for exactly thirty seconds long enough to gauge the breaking point of both sides.
Then, he acted.
"ENOUGH."
