Before her command could hit the damp stone walls of the council chamber, Lucien moved.
His left hand—the hand that remained unmarred by the cold alchemical calcification—did not reach for the pommel of his silver sovereign sword hanging at his hip. Instead, with a sharp, fluid movement born of centuries of battlefield instincts, he slammed his open palm flat against the black obsidian table. The impact was deafening in the enclosed space, and the reaction was instantaneous. His amethyst mana exploded outward from his flesh in a jagged, violent wave of purple static, the raw energy crackling like wild lightning across the polished stone surface and fracturing the ambient light of the torches.
