Lucien's expression faltered—just for a heartbeat.
His eyes widened—not in anger, but in raw, unguarded disbelief. It was as if the very air in the great hall had shifted. A refusal?
From Arthur?
He had expected a negotiation. A clever deflection. Perhaps a request to restructure the terms, or even a veiled plea for leniency. But this? A direct, outright renunciation? No apology. No excuses.
It was unthinkable.
A vassal king, a minor sovereign barely standing on the edge of stability, now looking him—him, the voice of Chronos—in the eye and saying, no.
It was the sort of move that should have come from desperation, or madness. But Arthur looked neither desperate nor mad.
He looked certain.
Lucien's face resumed its practiced calm, but something behind his gaze had turned sharp. The courteous tone he had worn like armor peeled away, replaced by a blade honed on diplomacy and veiled threats.
