The judge instinctively dropped his quill, which was behaving less like a writing tool and more like a cranky ancient power bank giving out one last jolt of revenge before dying.
It fizzled dramatically, then landed on the marble floor with all the dignity of a fainting Victorian lady. It was ironic, considering he had always fancied himself a lover of all things Victorian — just apparently not when they were collapsing in his throne room.
Judge stared at it the way one stares at a toaster that just launched a flaming bagel. The feather bristled, making faint crackling noises like it was chewing on its own indignation.
"Oh, what now?" he muttered. "You were perfectly fine turning a time explosion into a knife, but this is where you draw the line?"
