Crow stood rooted in place, his anger barely contained as he stared down the figures before him. The tight set of his jaw and the flicker of his remaining eye betrayed the storm raging within. He wanted nothing more than to draw his blade, to unleash the fury building in his chest, but he forced himself to swallow it. Every breath was a struggle to steady the fire burning in his veins.

“We’ll take the bluster—” he began, his voice rough but steady, each word measured and deliberate. The effort it took to keep himself from shouting was visible in the slight tremor of his hand as he reached for his sword. Slowly, he pushed it back beneath his belt, a calculated gesture of restraint. The fight wasn’t worth it—not yet. The decision was bitter, but necessary. Jacob’s plan had been brilliant, Crow grudgingly acknowledged to himself, even if he would never speak those words aloud.

His eye flicked toward the small king standing imperiously in front of him, a figure dwarfed by the sheer force of Crow’s presence. “—and bring it to yer doorstep,” he finished, the growl in his voice making the words sound more like a promise than a threat.

Crow’s glare shifted, sharp as a knife, cutting into each of them in turn. First, the king, who stiffened slightly under the weight of his gaze. Then, the queen, whose composed exterior faltered only for a moment. Lastly, his attention locked onto Admiral Hornagold. The admiral’s face remained a mask of stoic defiance, but Crow could see the tension in the man’s posture.

Every ounce of restraint Crow possessed kept him rooted where he stood. Though he had sheathed his weapon, the silent message was clear: this was not over.