Malaki's hand rested heavily on the silver pommel of his broadsword, his knuckles turning stark white. The air inside the tiny timber cabin was stretched so tight it felt as though a single breath would snap it in two. He stared down the imposter with a dark, lethal intensity, his boots planted firmly against the floorboards.
"I don't take orders to abandon the Duchess," Malaki said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, guttural rasp. "Especially not from someone acting as strange as you."
"Malaki," I cut in quickly, stepping between them before the tension could escalate into drawn steel. I laid a firm, reassuring hand against Malaki's armored forearm, feeling the coiled muscle beneath. "It's fine. Leave us for a moment. Go wait outside with Grace."
