Kian obviously did not like something about Garan's words.
The king's shoulders barely shifted, but a heavy stillness spread across the room. The kind that made the air feel thicker, harder to breathe. Kian didn't speak, didn't twitch, but his eyes—those quiet, guarded eyes—darkened.
They locked onto Garan with an intensity that cut past skin.
It was subtle.
But it was lethal.
And though Garan outranked Kian politically—his name carried weight in more regions than this one—the chill that slid down his spine was undeniable. His body didn't move, but every hair on his arm rose as if some primal instinct had just whispered: danger.
He fought the urge to clear his throat.
Still, his lips remained curled in that infuriating, ever-present smile. He tilted his head slightly, as if amused, watching Kian's cold gaze shift away at last. Only then did Garan allow himself to breathe a little easier.
But the warning had landed.
Loud and clear.
