The Weight of a Name
"Insolent!"
The word cracked through the air like a whip.
One of Harry Taylor's henchmen exploded in fury the moment Leon's calm reply settled into the ruined street. Steel shrieked as several swords were drawn at once, the sharp metallic chorus cutting through the smoke-heavy silence of the broken town. Ash drifted lazily between them. Somewhere in the distance, a half-collapsed roof creaked.
The men surged forward—
But Harry raised a hand.
"Stop."
His voice wasn't loud, yet it carried weight. The henchmen froze mid-step, blades hovering inches from their scabbards.
Harry's green eyes narrowed as he studied Leon more carefully this time.
Up close, the young man didn't look frightened. Not even a little. His midnight robes were simple, yet finely tailored, stitched with faint amethyst embroidery that caught the light when he shifted. His posture was relaxed, almost lazy. His breathing steady. No trembling. No panic.
