"Stand."
The word echoed—not loud, but deep. Like the strike of a gavel in a silent court. Not backed by mana. Not shaped by spellcraft.
And yet—
The walls seemed to listen.
The light stilled in place.
Even the steam from Lucavion's tea slowed, its delicate curl halting in the still air.
It was not sorcery. Not magic.
It was will.
Refined. Sharpened. Delivered through tone and breath and absolute certainty.
Speaking with Intent.
A technique older than any duel. Cultivated not in arenas, but in council chambers. Where empires rose or died by a single phrase. A practiced art passed down through bloodlines that had never known hunger, never known defeat. It crushed lesser men. Bent ambitious ones. And taught the proud the shape of their place.
Khaedren let the weight of that word spread through the room like ink in water.
A command.
An expectation.
A law, uttered as though it had always been so.
And Lucavion?
He felt it.
