Astram's expression doesn't change. His voice, when it comes, is like stone dragged across glass—cold, smooth, and final.
"I don't care about that."
The words cut the air in half.
"I don't care why they haven't crushed you yet. What I care about," Astram says, his gaze narrowing, "is how you intend to compensate me. Because if you don't…"
He pauses. The weight of his presence increases, not by a flare of power, not by any show of force—just by sheer existence.
"…then I will destroy your kingdom before your enemy even has the chance."
He says it so simply, as if discussing the weather.
Asdri can't breathe.
Astram hasn't released his aura, hasn't summoned a single spark of mana. And yet, Asdri feels like his soul is being flayed open. His vision flickers. For a split second, he sees his own death. Then another. And another.
He gasps—choking down air like he's resurfaced from drowning.
'What… what was that…?'
