And then, in an instant, the room obeyed his silence.
Soren lifted his hand, a simple, elegant motion, as though brushing dust from the air. The Winter Knights, who a heartbeat ago had been coiled springs of violence, froze.
One step back. Two.
Their armor sang softly as they lowered their weapons in perfect synchrony, the movement too graceful, too precise, too rehearsed to belong to mere men.
An emperor's army.
A predator's discipline.
The threat lingered anyway, like cold breath fogging glass.
Blood, rich and startlingly red, slipped from the corner of Soren's mouth. It trailed down the sharp line of his jaw and over his chin, a vivid reminder that he had been struck, that Caelen had dared to lay hands on the Emperor of Nevareth.
And then, he smiled.
It was a smile made for nightmares. Beautiful. Unhinged. A curve of lips that said, this will be remembered.
