"Plague of the Western Front…"
"The Kingkiller…"
The whispers rippled through the noble stands and across the commoners' rows like wind through dry leaves.
Eyes widened. Mouths were covered.
That name—Eli—was not one spoken carelessly. Not in public. Not here, where politics were meant to civilize the brutish, where appearances reigned.
But the whispers did not lie.
The priest's knuckles whitened around his staff. Even the knights behind him shifted their stances, armor clinking with tension.
Still, the priest stood firm—barely.
"You may be strong, Eli," he said, voice holding to a fragile calm, "but to go against the church is a conquest too foolish for even you."
Eli's eyes gleamed like knives in the sun.
"Cut the bullshit."
He stepped forward, his voice as casual as it was venomous.
"You think I have a problem killing you holy fucks? If you're so desperate to reunite with your gods, step forward. Let me grant your wish."
