"What will you do now, Your Majesty?"
The king of Poseidria drew in a slow breath. His shoulders rose, then settled, the movement steady as if even breathing was measured. No fear in his eyes—just the quiet focus of a man who had already chosen how this ended. No flicker. No doubt.
His fingers tightened on the trident's haft. The leather wrap gave a faint creak, the sound sharp in the silence between them. He twisted the weapon—once, twice—the polished prongs cutting the air in clean arcs before stilling.
When it stopped, the points were leveled at Kael, steady as if anchored to the earth.
His mouth curved, a faint shift against the cold stillness in his gaze.
"Thought so."
The Helm of Darkness bled across his face, shadows locking into place like the jaws of some unseen beast. His tone dropped, each word carrying weight.
"I respect your bravery."
