"Did you see her face?" he whispered, though the whole column could hear. "The storm—she's like Virellionn."
Fear rippled outward, a pebble tossed in stagnant water. Boots shuffled, metal clinked as grips tightened. Raëdrithar's head swiveled, silver eye cool and ancient. His low rumble rolled through the ground—less growl, more verdict. The soldier dropped his gaze, cheeks bleaching.
Vaelira stamped her spear butt once, sharp as a gavel. "Focus. Fear won't save you." The words cracked like a whip, slicing the gathering dread. She held the gaze of each trembling recruit until shoulders eased and breaths steadied.
Draven said nothing, but Sylvanna caught a glimmer in his eyes—a mental note: record resilience metrics post-incident. She could almost hear him assigning fear-threshold values to every face.
