The voice had a tinge of madness to it, the sort of edge someone who was calm but could fly off the handle at any moment would have. It was also slow, the sort of slow that came from a person very much used to having everyone hang on their every word.
Sylas had no time for it, nor the care or energy to speak to this man.
To Fowler, Sylas was the genius who stole his Contested Title.
To Sylas, Fowler was never on his level to begin with, and he had had the audacity to put hands on his wife.
There was nothing to talk about. What need was there to exchange words with a man who was wholly his inferior?
A crown appeared above Sylas' head and the projected image crumbled.
But as a Primus Luminaria, especially one born from his own Sector, the likes of Fowler had no right to strut around before him.
