"Kneel and lace your hands behind your back," he snarled. The heavy air was cut like by a venomous blade. A shameless smirk tugged at his lips, even as beads of sweat presaged his growing unease. His axe was only inches from Beorn's neck and glimmered ominously in the poor light.
Beorn, his face dripping with cold sweat, dared not move; the tension in the room was a suffocating fog. The grip of the leader tightened on the axe handle, and the veins in his hand bulged with effort.
"What do you think, hero?" the leader sneered, his voice running over with sarcasm. "This must be your resolution. Yet, I doubt you'll act."
Nyxander remained unfazed, his calm demeanor an unsettling contrast to the storm of fear enveloping the room. "That must be your plan," he said, striding forward with deliberate, unhurried steps. "But I'm afraid it won't work."
