"Sorry for the rough introduction," one of them said, his voice low but carrying that quiet command that made people instinctively straighten. He looked every bit the part. I mean he's taller, broader-shouldered, with a presence that made the temperature of the clearing feel a degree colder.
He wore his authority like armor. "I am the Prince of the Centaur Kingdom, and the leader of the warriors within our realm," he announced, each word measured and polite, but threaded with steel. The way he stood, the set of his jaw, the slow sweep of his gaze—everything screamed royalty. No wonder I'd felt that strange, formal pressure the second he stepped forward. It clicked that moment that this wasn't just some random tough—this was a crowned muscle with a throne behind him.
