Mo Zenith walked away from his discussion with Arthur, his steps slow and deliberate, the weight of their exchange lingering in the air like the last note of a distant melody. His expression, so often a mask of cold authority, was now shadowed with something uncharacteristic—reflection.
If any other boy had dared to speak such words to him, they would not have lived to finish their sentence. A swift flick of his hand, and their arrogance would have been silenced forever, a lesson etched into the fabric of the sect. But with Arthur Nightingale, he could not.
It wasn't that the boy was beyond him—far from it. In this moment, Mo could end him as easily as snuffing out a candle. No, it was something far more disarming.
The words the boy spoke.
