Aelthrin dipped his chin, measured and deliberate. "A victory not just for the blade, but the mind," he said. Each word landed with reassuring weight, the cadence of an old orator who understood the value of finality. A subtle hush followed, an unspoken agreement that this line would be what the scribes recorded for posterity.
He bowed his head slightly, silver hair tipping forward like moonlit silk. Nobles mirrored his gesture, some sincerely, others out of reflex. In the pause, Mikhailis felt a quiet thrill. That's right, he thought. We didn't win this with swords. We won it with potions, patience… and a few distractions. The unorthodox path, the one he knew best.
