"In less than ten minutes, those water demons will sever the primary tendons in that dragon's left wing. The mount will crash into the trench. The dragon will survive the pressure, but your Senior Praetor will have his ribs crushed by the oceanic depth within four seconds of submersion. His lungs will fill with brine, and his corpse will drift into the coral caves as feed for the hatchlings."
Jack paused, letting the silence stretch across the plateau until the only sound was the howling wind and the faint, rhythmic gasps of the trembling nobles.
"So I ask you, Councilors," Jack said softly. "Should I step in and balance the scales? Should I grant your champion a hand so that he might survive long enough to meet Rhys on the thirteenth floor?"
The question hung in the freezing air like an iron weight.
Daemon Archon's pale hazel eyes flickered with rapid calculation, his fingers tapping against his chin as he looked at the ground.
