All eyes turned toward Lord Lysandros, the man who had only moments ago been basking in the triumph of their long-awaited ally's arrival. But now, the weight of the envoy's unfinished words hung over him like a sword suspended by a single thread.
Lysandros' fingers curled into the wood of the table before him, his voice sharp and impatient. "Apologies? Apologies for what? What could he possibly have done to me? Speak clearly, boy."
Lorren swallowed. His stance, once composed, now wavered. He had prepared himself for this moment, but under the piercing gazes of the rebel lords, he found the words struggling to form. He shifted where he stood, his fingers twitching slightly, before he finally forced himself to go on.
