Zyran's smile widened, that slow, wicked curl that always made people wonder whether he was about to flirt, murder, or do both in poetic order. The air around him shimmered faintly with the echo of ancient magic, the kind of untamed energy that did NOT belong in a peaceful village square but somehow suited him disturbingly well.
He clapped his hands together—bright, cheerful, absolutely deranged.
"Nowww," he sang, turning to the frozen men, as though he were a village auntie about to tell bedtime stories to children.
"Where was I? Ah yes—my tragic, beautiful childhood."
The trapped men all collectively screamed with their eyes.
Zyran began pacing slowly, theatrically, one palm behind his back and the other swirling his wooden wine bottle as if conducting an invisible choir.
"You see, once upon a time, when I was but a young cub—"
A few of the frozen men blinked, confused.
A few others wanted to scream.
One just wet himself a little.
