On the central screen above the table, King Romsgard Goldstone's expression was a portrait of internal conflict.
His summer-sky eyes moved from Lancet to Astensia, from Astensia to Thor, from Thor to Spectra. His golden brow was furrowed, his jaw tight. He was a king who had built his reign on the stories of these women, on their sacrifices, their heroism, their legends.
And now they stood before him, not as myths but as witnesses, telling him that everything he had believed about the truce was wrong.
That the enemy had been laughing at them all along.
Obel recorded what Lancet had said then leaned forward, no longer bored or disinterested. He looked at the Heroines with more intensity this time.
"Is this your testimony too?" he asked, his voice grave.
Astensia stepped forward. She spoke with that knightly uplifting and convincing tone of hers, the one she used to rally warriors against Demon armies.
