Florian braced himself for the inevitable blaze, every nerve in his body screaming for him to run, to close his eyes, to do something.
But he didn't.
He refused.
If fire was going to engulf them, he wanted to see it—he wanted to face it, even if it was the last thing he ever did.
He knew Hendrix wouldn't let it touch him.
Somehow, he believed that.
But the others—those voices shrieking in panic, those bodies stumbling in desperation—he couldn't say the same for them.
The air was filled with chaos: the clatter of heels on stone, the sobs of nobles clutching their jewels, the desperate shouts of knights trying to form order where there was none.
Some voices Florian recognized. Others were strangers.
All were drowning in terror.
He clenched his fists.
Waiting.
Waiting for the fire.
But it never came.
The seconds dragged like hours, his breath caught painfully in his chest until even Hendrix whispered, confused, "Did it not… attack?"
