King Brancandon strode past Fabrice Targan, prompting Delvin to turn and face him, curiosity flickering in his eyes. He wondered what words would spill from the king's lips.
"We have everything under control. What's our next move?" Brancandon blurted, his tone carrying the weight of certainty—perhaps too much certainty.
Delvin inhaled deeply, his voice calm yet unwavering. "This is the time you gather your airships and leave this planet for good." The softness of his tone did little to mask the seriousness in his words. It was clear—he was not joking.
Brancandon stiffened, offense flashing across his face. He had not expected such bluntness, and for a moment, he was at a loss. Had his followers been present, this moment of hesitation would have been unacceptable—perhaps even disgraceful.
Noting the gloom clouding the king's expression, Delvin's lips curled into a sly smile.
