The sound is a pressure more than a sound—felt in the bones, not the ears.
"Or I will bring ruin to your city. Stone by stone. Blood by blood."
People fall to their knees in the streets. Children scream.
In the war chamber, the knight at Veynar's side gasps, bleeding from his nose.
"That… wasn't a spell," he stammers. "That was just, his voice."
Veynar doesn't blink. He fly.
Then he speaks.
No amplification. No magic.
Only will.
His voice cuts through the air like a blade.
"You dare speak to me like that?"
The clouds above shudder. The palace trembles with the echo of his fury.
King Veynar steps out onto the highest spire of the royal palace, lightning wreathing his form in crackling arcs. His armor gleams with runic inlays, enchantments centuries old, designed for one purpose: war. His cape billows behind him, shredded by the electric pressure pouring from his body.
