The silence in the cellar was no longer the heavy, suffocating weight of grief. It was the pressurized stillness that precedes a landslide.
Alistair stepped into the flickering circle of lantern light. He didn't move with the heavy, labored gait of the miner he had pretended to be. His spine was a column of iron, his shoulders squared with a grace that felt ancient and dangerous. The "noble rags" he wore seemed to transform, clinging to him not like a disguise, but like a battle-worn mantle.
Vane squinted, his breath hitching as the tall figure approached. Even in the dimness, the change was unmistakable. The raw, predatory authority radiating from the man in the shadows was enough to make the other leaders instinctively step back.
"The servants," Alistair said.His voice didn't just carry; it vibrated through the stone floor. It was the resonance of a man who had spent his life being poisoned and yet refused to die.
