Chiron stepped forward.
Silmarien's eyes widened. "What are you doing?" he hissed. "What about them?" His gaze flicked to the side—Gadan stood tense, blue flames leaking from his scales, while the woman, Arianna, beside him had already shifted her stance, killing intent rolling off her like cold perfume. "They're clearly waiting for a chance to tear us apart."
Chiron didn't stop walking.
Without looking back, he answered calmly, "I'll leave their convincing to you."
Silmarien stared at his back, momentarily stunned. Then his jaw tightened. He understood. Chiron was saying this plainly:
Hold them.
Ahead, Chiron's weapon stirred.
Devil's Touch flowed like living blood from his arm, veins of crimson writhing and stretching, reshaping themselves midair. The liquid metal elongated, thickened, and hardened into a long, brutal sword—its surface rippling as though it were breathing.
The Clown snickered, dragging his massive blade across the ruined stone with a shrill screech.
