The acolytes stood in front of the booth while they waited for Ciprian to acknowledge them. They seemed different than usual, bolder, and he didn't like it one bit.
The rage he felt when faced with what was undoubtedly an ambush by the remainder of his chosen ones turned his blood to ice. With the exception of when he was with the enemy, Ciprian never felt so close to losing control of himself.
But he didn't lose control. He remembered who he was.
He was their Master still, even if traces of the doubt he'd spent his life trying to eradicate were written directly on their treacherous faces.
So he acted like their Master, drumming his fingers in time with his pulse on the tabletop while doing his best to convey his displeasure without saying a single word. It was just as if he was sitting on his dais in the Great Hall, in the spot he'd earned with too many sacrifices to count, and he'd summoned the three of them to be disciplined for their egregious transgression.
