The cold wind stirred. The elder stood motionless, his robes fluttering slightly. His icy-blue eyes locked onto Dracos and Nox with an unreadable calm that was almost unsettling.
Nox exhaled sharply, struggling to keep his expression from twisting in frustration. Was his luck that terrible? Or could it be that the universe didn't want him to succeed in his plan?
They had gone through all that effort—risking luring a Scourge Champion away from the city, nearly getting themselves killed—only for this stubborn old frost dragon to catch up anyway.
It was quite infuriating.
Beside him, Dracos remained perfectly still, but Nox could feel it—the tightness in the monarch's stance, the faint shift in his fingers.
Frustration. Real, simmering frustration.
"How persistent," Dracos muttered under his breath, the words meant for Nox alone.
