Reynard's smile did not break.
Not even now.
The words had struck clean. So clean, they left no blood to show—only silence. The crowd held its breath. His followers stared, stunned by how neatly Lucavion had laid the narrative, how tightly each thread wove into the next. A perfect trap.
But Reynard?
He bowed his head slightly.
A breath. A pause.
And then he exhaled with the quiet gravity of a man too noble to raise his voice in anger.
'Fell right into it. As expected from a lower-born commoner,' he thought. But his eyes didn't show triumph. Only sadness.
He stepped forward—not in fury, but with grace. Measured. Controlled.
"I had hoped," Reynard said softly, his voice warm with ache and restraint, "that this evening might be unmarred by division. That we could begin our time here as comrades, not adversaries."
He turned slightly, allowing his voice to carry—not like a commander, but a scholar wounded by what had just unfolded.
