For a long, terrible moment, Narmer Brander's expression did not change. His face remained a cold, unreadable mask. But those who knew him well could see the storm raging behind his eyes—the fury, the humiliation, the desperate calculation of a man cornered.
Then, slowly, he spoke.
"This is the Northern Territory of the Brander Clan, not the South." His voice was flat, emotionless. "Here, there are no rules that protect non-Trueblooded. For attacking a higher-born Trueblood of the clan, the boy will be punished."
A wave of murmurs rippled through the crowd. Even some of the Trueblooded looked uncomfortable. It was a weak argument, a transparent attempt to cling to authority in the face of overwhelming evidence. But it was also a statement of raw power. The North operated by its own rules, and those rules placed Trueblooded above all others.
August's eyes narrowed. His smile, which had never wavered, took on a sharper edge.
