The insult hovered in the air like smoke.
It drifted.
It settled.
It burned.
Zyran's mockery was already rotten, already poisonous, already too much for any man to swallow, but when he stepped lower, dragging Cyrus' unborn children into his smirk, something inside Cyrus snapped.
Not gently.
Not slowly.
Not quietly.
It snapped like a bone twisted out of place.
The sound of it was not heard, but everyone felt it. A shiver crawled along the dirt. The wooden beams of the half-built cradle vibrated. Even the wind outside the small village paused, sensing a spiritual shift.
Ophelia gasped, covering her mouth.
Valen's eyes widened.
The villagers gathering nearby froze mid-step.
Cyrus' pupils dilated until his eyes looked like bottomless red pools, glowing faintly with an ancient energy he rarely ever used.
His voice dropped, low and guttural.
"What," he said, "did you say."
Zyran held his stare without fear.
Zyran had never known fear.
Zyran was the fear in other men.
