The air between us thickened, heavy with that familiar push and pull. Doran never came without a reason—every smile he wore was just a mask over some scheme.
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the desk. "Steal the spotlight? Hah. You couldn't if you tried. The age of Doran, the great phantom thief, is long past. These days, the only thing you steal is food from the kitchen."
His laughter boomed, unbothered, shaking the dust from the rafters. "Oh, I missed that tongue of yours. Always sharper than your blade. Careful—it'll be your tongue that gets you killed someday, not your enemies."
"Or maybe it'll be the teacher who dies first, for being too loud." My gaze flicked toward the door. "If you plan to keep your head attached, stop drawing attention. This is no place for your antics."
Doran only smirked, tilting his head. "There it is—the paranoia I trained into you. Good. But don't forget, boy—shadows are my playground. Even under this ducal roof, I move freer than you."
