The weight of Lyerin's gaze pressed upon the soldiers like a storm cloud threatening to burst, heavy with untold consequences.
His crimson eyes swept over them, taking in their fear, their confusion, their rising despair.
He stood tall and calm, his demeanor an unshakable pillar in the chaos of their frayed emotions.
The light from the portal shimmered behind him, an eerie, almost divine glow that cast long, distorted shadows across the ground.
For a long moment, he said nothing, letting the silence grow, letting their anxiety stew in the unspoken truths that hung like a noose over their heads.
Finally, with an air of deliberate purpose, Lyerin clasped his hands behind his back and began to speak.
His voice was soft, almost conversational, but it carried the weight of finality—a quiet storm that brooked no argument.
