Sylvaris coldly turned to the guards.
With a casual flick of his wrist, he swung his sword once, sending a thin spray of blood splashing onto the ground. Then, without a word, he sheathed it with a sharp, final click.
His arms slid around the waists of his women — both Faylira and Liraeth — who, still caught in the heat of everything that had just happened, said nothing.
They simply leaned into him, their hearts thundering in awe, their eyes shining with a mixture of pride, fear, and a fierce, dangerous kind of love.
Sylvaris took a single step forward.
The guards took a single step back.
His presence was too much, too vast, too heavy; each step he made sounded like the return of a battle god from a victorious conquest.
Even breathing became difficult in front of him, the air itself growing thick, almost suffocating under the sheer force of his aura.
They did not dare raise their blades again.
