"And yet he speaks as if he stands on equal ground," another voice added, sharper this time.
A faint snort followed.
"Lower races always mistake borrowed strength for their own."
The old man's gaze shifted.
His eyes settled on the elf who had spoken last.
Then the air changed.
The elf stiffened.
His breath caught before he could stop it. The color drained from his face as instinct screamed danger. His legs nearly locked, knees trembling as if they no longer remembered how to stand. For a heartbeat, true fear showed in his eyes.
He swallowed hard.
But then he noticed it.
The instructors around him had not reacted.
The Sanctuary supervisor remained silent.
No reprimand followed.
No pressure descended from above.
The fear hesitated.
And hesitation gave way to something else.
The elf straightened.
He lifted his chin, forcing his spine upright, and slowly met the old man's gaze. His eyes were sharp now, challenging. Provocative.
As if daring him.
