"A throne is not kept by mercy alone. Sometimes it is kept by the last hand that still dares to end the rot."
They spoke like men who had already decided their fate and were merely arguing the formality of it aloud. Commander Tovik's voice, cold, hard, practiced, cut the charged air. The Silver Fangs behind him echoed in small, dangerous sounds: agreement, the shuffle of shifting feet, the metallic whisper of blades being adjusted in their sheaths.
"Omegas are lesser," Tovik declaimed, voice oily with conviction. "They are a scourge. They weaken the breed. We kept them from breeding chaos. We did what had to be done." He lifted his chin and, for a disgusting heartbeat, looked like a man proud of a slaughterhouse. "If the King cannot see reason, then let it be known we will preserve this kingdom as we always have."
