"Long live the pervert lord!" they shrieked, scattering a flock of pigeons.
Lyan pinched the bridge of his nose. "Josephine's influence," he muttered, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him with a reluctant grin.
(Perhaps we should commission kinder titles,) Cynthia suggested, all maternal concern.
Lilith hummed. (No, no—pervert lord has a certain candor. Accurate branding.)
Arturia sighed. (Heralds will have headaches rewriting the ballads.)
He stepped aside as three recruits jogged by in half-armor, each trading mock blows with a tribesman wielding an antler club padded in straw. Friendly rivalries crackled in the training yard beyond: Astellian sword forms met mountain grappling, laughter punctuating every failed flourish. One tribeswoman flipped a broad-shouldered knight flat on his back; the yard erupted in cheers, equal parts admiration and teasing.
