"Han!" The Low-Silver general advanced, his own weapon raised.
"This is treason!"
Treason—the highest crime in the city, punishable by execution regardless of rank.
Han smiled, the expression devoid of warmth.
Han smiled, the expression devoid of warmth.
"Treason? Because I'm trying to get justice for my dead son?"
His silver aura flickered, emotions bleeding into energy. Pride, outrage, righteousness—a masterful performance for the watching soldiers. Not rebellion but retribution, the aggrieved father rather than the ambitious general.
The gathered troops shifted uncomfortably, sympathies swayed by this reframing.
Han's blade rose for another strike, silver energy coalescing along its edge.
Then—
A voice.
Just three words, spoken with such quiet authority that they seemed to physically ripple through the air.
"Han, that's enough."
The voice settled over the battlements like winter frost, stealing the breath from every soldier present.
