The pain had dulled, but it never left.
Each step reminded him—ribs tight, lip still split, vision blurred slightly on one side. The swelling would fade in a day or two. The memory of fists slamming into his jaw would linger far longer.
Let them see it.
He didn't wear his coat. Didn't bother to hide the bruises with magic or salve. The robe over his shoulders hung loose, white linen stained faintly pink where gauze pressed against reopened cuts.
The full chamber echoed with a stifling silence. Elders muttering, eyes flicking his way the moment the doors opened. Some stood. Others didn't bother.
Three empty chairs.
Cowards.
He took his seat—slowly, deliberately—ignoring the scraping of wood as others adjusted themselves. No one greeted him. No one offered a word.
Until one did.
"So this is what a leader looks like now?"
