Selim's arms were folded as he leaned back against a basalt spire, his posture more wearied than proud.
His face, half-shadowed, carried the look of a man who bore grudges heavier than his armor. Ozborn, broader and harsher, sat upon a fragment of ruined stone, sharpening a dagger with methodical strokes.
"They deserve no pity when they sneer at us," Selim said at last, his voice sharp with bitterness. "and think we're beneath them."
Ozborn's eyes narrowed. The sound of steel scraping stone stopped.
"They think they're better because they were born to noble lines, because their dragons are a shade bigger, their flames a shade hotter." His lip curled. "Fools. Nothing more. Give them a real war and see how quickly they burn."
