Lucian's grin lingered, smug as a cat who'd cornered its prey. He twirled his quill with a satisfied hum, already certain he'd claimed the last word.
But at the threshold, Sebathine paused. He didn't look back, his voice was steady and low, each syllable cold enough to cut.
"Keep laughing, Tutor. It's easy to jest when you've never seen how quickly men burn once they're too close to the fire."
Then he was gone, the echo of his boots striking the corridor like the punctuation to his threat.
Lucian sat very still, the smile on his lips unbroken but his eyes gleaming sharper than before—thoughtful, almost predatory. He tapped the quill once against the desk, a slow rhythm, before murmuring to himself,
"…and what a blaze you'd make, General."
The echo of Sebathine's boots faded down the hall, leaving the chamber heavy with silence at last.
