A jolt—like a fuse being lit—flashed in Mikhailis's mind. Yes. Something inside him snapped, or perhaps ignited. The brand gave a forceful, heated pulse, not like the oppressive burn from earlier but more a fueling blaze that made his senses sharpen. He felt his heart thunder in a new rhythm, a savage clarity flooding his thoughts.
I'm not leaving, he told himself, ignoring the swirl of warnings that rationality tried to raise. Not while they think they can just do what they want with her. He inhaled, a slow and furious draw of breath that left his lungs burning.
He turned, eyes locking with Laethor's. The battered prince saw the shift in Mikhailis's expression—an abrupt pivot from half-humorous caution to frozen determination. A kind of alarm flickered in Laethor's gaze, and he opened his mouth to speak, voice cracking, "Wait, you're not—"
