Sebastine's blade froze inches from Lucian's chest, its weight suspended in the air like a final judgment. The general's expression was carved from stone, but beneath the calm veneer was something sharp, impatient. He had expected Lucian to falter by now, to stumble into humiliation. Yet the man still stood there, hair disheveled, chest heaving, smirk unwavering.
With a small twist of his wrist, Sebastine lowered the sword. The air between them seemed to thin.
"Kneel," Sebastine commanded, voice iron.
The word echoed in the quiet clearing.
Alistair's laughter broke first. He clapped mockingly, eyes gleaming with vicious delight. "Yes! That's perfect. Make him kneel, make him admit what he is. A fraud dressed in silk."
Lucian tilted his head, studying Sebastine with a cool, feline detachment. His lashes lowered, his lips curved faintly, and then he chuckled under his breath, as though the order amused him more than it threatened him.
