"Sevrin, you'd better remember who the hell you are!"
"First of all, you don't get to talk to me like that. You got questions? Fine—have Darek come ask me himself. Second, my people? Not your damn concern."
Clack. Clack. Clack…
Footsteps echoed across the deck.
A cold, cutting voice sliced through the tense air—Draven's.
He strode toward Sevrin, the Tideborn Spirit hero, his presence radiating raw power and an overbearing dominance. With every step, the distance between them shrank until they were practically face to face.
The tension snapped taut in an instant—like a blade drawn halfway from its sheath.
Seeing this, Draven's pirate crew surged forward in unison, stepping up behind him, ready for a standoff.
It was clear—Draven wasn't the kind of man to take shit lying down. He was infamous along the coastal waters of the Unicorn Duchy, a plague on the sea. Sure, he knew when to bow his head—he wasn't stupid. He understood the game, knew when to play it smart.
