Thalus adjusted his glasses, his sharp eyes glinting with an air of superiority as he leaned slightly forward from his place behind the Seer. The corners of his mouth curled into a sneer, and his voice, calm but laced with mockery, carried across the table.
"I do hope you've prepared pork meat for the Seer's meal," he said, his tone light but dripping with insult. "After all, nothing complements such a barren, wasteland ambiance quite like a taste of the local culture."
The words hung in the air like a blade poised to strike. Barak's smile remained fixed, but the slight tightening of his jaw betrayed his irritation.
Beside him, Lorath's hand instinctively went to the hilt of his sword, and a faint metallic whisper filled the air as the blade unsheathed itself by a fraction. His spiritual energy flared subtly, a sharp and cutting presence that caused the air to grow heavy. The soldiers behind him stiffened, their gazes darting toward the confrontation brewing at the table.
