"A kinslayer has no honor."
The words rumbled through the stadium, shaking the snow from the rafters.
Elder Torrum stood like a mountain of grey fur and iron-wood, an immovable wall between the fallen Leona and the enraged King Scar.
"Move, Torrum!" Scar screamed, black lightning crackling violently around his sword, arcing indiscriminately into the ground.
"Are you senile! I am the King! My word is law!"
"Your word is poison," Torrum countered, his voice calm, heavy, and terribly sad.
He reached into the thick folds of his fur and pulled out a small, glass vial.
It was empty, but the residue clinging to the glass glowed with a sickly, distinctive green light.
"I kept this, Scar. For two years, I kept the vial you gave the Apothecary."
Scar froze, his lightning sputtering for a fraction of a second.
"I was too weak to challenge you then," Torrum admitted, his eyes filled with a deep, ancient regret.
