Then he is exactly what he looks like: a paper tutor with a loud mouth," Alistair said, venom thinning into something like cold amusement. "And we will decide then if paper should be burned or preserved as a lesson."
They sat again, the map between them now a battlefield of glances and intent. Outside, the forest breathed. Inside the tent, two men shaped a strategy out of restraint and rage, each measuring the other with the same keen eye used to measure foes.
Alistair's knuckles were white on the table. He looked less like a prince then and more like a man who had a debt to collect and no patience for conditional promises.
Sebathine's jaw worked once, slow, decisive. "Then watch," he said softly. "Prepare. Do not act until the hour we can claim without question. And if you cannot hold back until then—if your hand moves before your mind—know that I will not stand in the way, but I will not carry the blame. You will."
