Rex emerged from the shadows of the Grand Academy, but he was no longer the untouchable god who had commanded the plaza.
He had carefully crafted a new persona: the survivor. He moved with a deliberate, pained stagger, his boots scraping unevenly against the cobblestones.
The shallow cuts he had allowed to mar his skin burned with genuine irritation, and he allowed his breathing to come in shallow, ragged gasps, as if every lungful of air was a hard-won victory.
He made his way toward the makeshift medical encampment strung up along the plaza's edge, a cluster of white canvas tents stained with blood and dust.
His timing was precise. He waited until the initial shock of Xerollion's speech had begun to settle into a numb, hollow silence, ensuring his reappearance would feel less like a political event and more like a miraculous reprieve.
The first soldier to spot him froze mid-stride, his spear lowering. "Rex? Rex Rexilion?"
The question was disbelief incarnate.
