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Ha. As if the rag-tag group of mages in the chamber could work something more than a pinprick.
His Most Royal Majestic Magnitude dismissed this particular newsbringer.
Tawny-haired and tall, twenty-something, with a gait like a mountain cat’s, the man in the lead—Prince Lamir Loradaine of North Reach—made his way with his head high. His strides were long and determined, his gaze straight ahead. Dressed as he was, he had to be doused in sweat, but if that or the suffocating heat in the room bothered him, he gave no sign of it.
...
Shorter, dark-haired, with broad, slouched shoulders, this man moved forward a few feet with a gait just as limber as the other’s, but lurching. His kneel was stiff, his expression haggard and worn. The sweat on his face mixed with blood from a wound on his forehead, which he ignored, even as the red trickled down toward his mouth. He bowed his head but did not look back up.
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