Maxwell rose, his fists clenched against his waist. His face contorted a little more each second Adam glared at him.
"How dare you order me?" Storms ignited in his eyes, drifting into streams around his furrowed brows. "Do it again."
To Adam, however, Maxwell's scream sounded with the hollowness of shards held together into a pottery of broken authority. Smoke from burnt grass and charred soil swirled around them. The scent gripped his throat, as if wind tried to shove the toxic gas into his lungs. But he continued to glare.
Everyone watching likely believed he had gone mad, that nothing justified firing his cannon or beating Basile so much. That no matter what he did or said, he was guilty.
