The tension between them was heavy, the heat of the nearby fire doing little to warm the cold that clung to the air. Aszer's face shifted, his proud smirk faltering as he caught the weight in Yrsa's gaze.
"Could there be a problem?" Aszer asked, his voice laced with unease, though he tried to mask it with arrogance.
Yrsa's eyes didn't leave him, the firelight flickering in their cold depths. "I received word from the north," she began, her tone sharp. "Your soldiers, the soldiers of Byzeth, have harassed and robbed my people. Our trade with you has become an avenue for your scandalous exploits—a mockery of the agreements we made."
Aszer blinked, his mouth opening in protest. "I know nothing of this," he said, a touch too quickly. "Surely if we sit down and talk—"
Yrsa cut him off mid-sentence, her voice sharp, unwavering. "You are king of Byzeth. It was your job to know. Such disrespect, such an attack on my people, is a sin that can not be forgiven."
