The entire clearing was dead-silent except for Zyran humming like a deranged bard who'd found a new audience. The invading men—frozen in place, muscles locked, eyes bulging—looked like they wanted to melt into puddles and escape between the cracks in the earth.
Their leader, the three-striped, pride-swollen brute who had strutted in like he owned the continent, was now visibly trembling. His jaw quivered. His pupils shook. He had the haunted look of someone who had just accidentally stepped on a god's tail.
Zyran lifted one dainty panther-black brow, swirling the wine bottle in his hand like he was tasting drama more than the wine.
"Oh no, forget it," he said with an airy wave of his fingers. "I don't care anymore about your attendance or answering my questions. Honestly, you're all terrible listeners. Let me continue with my storytelling."
He cleared his throat theatrically.
The leader flinched.
That was how traumatized they all were.
