The echo of the slammed door lingered long after Sebathine's departure, like a ghost rattling inside the stone chamber. Silence pressed in, thick and heavy, broken only by the faint shuffle of boots as the young soldiers dared to breathe again.
Lucian remained where he stood, unhurried. His hand brushed over the polished edge of the nearest table, as though the clash of wills had been nothing more than idle conversation. The corner of his mouth still tilted upward—not in joy, but in possession.
Eyes. He could feel them still, clinging to him like moths to firelight. The recruits, too rattled to leave, watched him as though he had sprouted a second shadow. He let them. Let the silence stretch, let the unease carve itself into their memory.
When he finally turned, it was with the grace of a man stepping onto a stage.
