The crowd had no time to register their motion—one moment, they stood yards away; the next, their ivory-masked gazes were locked on Kael, their spiritual pressure probing the edges of his aura.
Their expressions remained unreadable, hidden behind masks carved with intricate sigils, but their stances had shifted, the calm poise of impartial judges giving way to a subtle tension, a wariness that betrayed their unease.
The taller figure raised a hand, palm open, and a flicker of white essence coalesced within it, forming a delicate sigil that pulsed with the resonance of a high-grade spiritual array. The sigil hummed, its energy threading through the air, seeking to bind and suppress, its intent as clear as a blade pressed to the throat.
Kael stopped walking, his silver eyes narrowing, his fingers tightening around the sheathed Abyssal Fang. The blade, still dormant, hummed faintly, its spiritual essence resonating with his will, a warning to those who would challenge him.
