"What the hell?" one of the assassins tried to speak, but his voice froze mid-word.
The air stilled. Dust particles hung motionless like stars. The king, the hero, the terrified crowd, every soul was frozen in place. Only Nolan moved.
Just as I thought, he mused, his voice low and calm. Something wasn't right. I could feel it long before the final blow. They planned to kill the king and capture the hero, to force him into the cult.
He looked up at the frozen blades, caught mid-air, the metal glinting inches from their victims. He sighed softly.
"Pathetic."
Nolan slid his hands into his pockets, his cloak fluttering in the unmoving air, and began to walk. His footsteps echoed in the silence of the stopped world.
Then he rose, floating gently into the air, ascending toward the royal platform. The wind did not move, but his presence stirred it anyway.
