The leader's eyes shifted to Sigora, and his expression changed, becoming leering and inappropriate, stripping her with his gaze in a way that made Jorghan's hands clench into fists.

"And who's this? Your bodyguard, human? Or maybe something else?" He looked Sigora up and down with exaggerated slowness.

"That's a lot of women you've got there. Tell me, how does a little thing like you even—"

"Careful," Sigora interrupted, her voice dropping to something cold and dangerous.

"You're very close to saying something you'll regret."

"Regret?" The leader laughed.

"What's an eight-foot elf woman going to do? Sit on me? Though with a figure like that, I might not mind—"

Under normal circumstances, Sigora would have handled this decisively. One quick strike to the jaw, maybe a follow-up to ensure the lesson stuck, then walk away, leaving the fool to nurse his wounds and damaged pride.

But these weren't normal circumstances.

These were Amasurata clan members. Young, stupid, but still the youth of the strongest clan, the ones who are hosting the Council gathering. Attacking them, even in self-defense or defense of honor, would create political complications that could poison the entire ceremony.

She didn't want to get Jorghan on their side.

The other clans might see it as the Nor'vack and Sol'vur disrespecting their hosts. Might use it as justification to delay or deny Jorghan's recognition. Might turn what should be a moment of triumph into a political nightmare that would haunt both their clans for years.

Sigora's hand was trembling with the effort of restraint, her jaw clenched so tight Jorghan could see the muscles working. She wanted to hit him; she wanted to make him regret every word, but she couldn't.

Not here. Not now. Not when so much was riding on maintaining peace.

Jorghan could see how his aunt was trying her best not to escalate this situation, and respecting her wishes, he didn't.

So he did the hardest thing he'd ever done: he swallowed his pride and his rage, and he tried to defuse the situation.

"You're right," he said, his voice carefully neutral.

"We don't belong in this street. We'll go elsewhere. No trouble needed."

He reached for Sigora's hand, intending to lead her away, to retreat before things escalated—

The leader grabbed his arm, yanking him back with enhanced strength that pulled Jorghan off balance.

"I didn't say you could leave," he sneered.

*

Sigora stood between Jorghan and the six Amasurata youths, her eight-foot frame tense with barely contained fury. Every fiber of her being screamed at her to act, to defend her honor, to make these arrogant fools understand what happened when someone disrespected her.

But she couldn't.

"We're leaving," she said again, her voice strained with the effort of maintaining composure.

"Let us pass."

Kel'mars, the leader, stepped closer, invading her personal space with deliberate provocation. Up close, he was striking in the way all Amasurata seemed to be. Eight and a half feet of perfectly proportioned physique, skin like polished velvet in a warm bronze tone, and features so symmetrically perfect they seemed almost unreal. His eyes were amber with flecks of gold, and his silver-blonde hair fell in waves that looked artfully arranged despite being natural.

He and his companions were beautiful in a way that suggested divine craftsmanship, the Amasurata bloodline had been refined over thousands of years, selecting for not just strength and intelligence but aesthetic perfection. They looked like what gods might create if tasked with designing the ideal sentient being.

Which made their cruelty all the more jarring.

"Leaving?" Kel'mars laughed, the sound melodious despite the mockery it carried.

"But we're just getting acquainted. I want to understand what a woman like you—" his eyes traveled over her body again with insulting slowness, "—is doing with a human runt. Is it charity? Exotic curiosity? Or maybe—"

"Maybe she's desperate," one of his companions suggested with a cruel grin.

"Can't find a real elf to satisfy her, so she's lowering her standards."

"Gods, can you imagine?" Another chimed in.

"That's a lot of woman for such a little man. Does he need a ladder? A step stool?"

They laughed together, feeding off each other's cruelty, emboldened by Sigora's restraint, which they mistook for weakness.

"I bet he can't even reach—" Kel'mars started.

"Enough," Sigora said, her voice dropping to something deadly.

"You're children playing at being warriors. You hide behind your clan name and your pretty faces, but underneath you're nothing but—"

"Nothing?" Kel'mars interrupted, his expression hardening.

"We're Amasurata. The strongest bloodline, the most perfect lineage. What are you? Nor'vack—island dwellers playing at civilization. And him?"

He jabbed a finger toward Jorghan.

"He's not even a full elf. A half-blood mongrel who—"

Jorghan moved.

Not with magic.

Not with transformation or blood essence or any of the supernatural abilities that had let him destroy an army.

Just raw, human, well, half-human, physicality honed by training, enhanced by his bloodline's passive improvements to his musculature and reflexes.

His fist caught Kel'mars in the solar plexus before the elf finished his sentence.

The impact drove the air from Kel'mars's lungs with an audible whuff, doubling him over, his perfect features twisting in shock and pain.

Jorghan's follow-up strike was a knee to the face that snapped Kel'mars's head back, blood spraying from his nose, no longer quite so perfectly proportioned.

The elf staggered backward, and Jorghan was already moving to the next target.

The second youth, who'd made the comment about Sigora being desperate, tried to raise his hands defensively.

Too slow.

Jorghan's palm strike caught him under the chin, the force sufficient to lift the eight-foot elf off his feet briefly before gravity reasserted itself and brought him crashing down.

"You want to talk about her?" Jorghan's voice was quiet but carrying, audible despite the sudden commotion.

"You want to insult someone who's forgotten more about honor than you'll ever learn?"

His elbow struck the third youth in the temple as the elf tried to grab him from behind. The blow was precise, calculated to stun without causing permanent damage, though the way the elf crumpled suggested he'd be feeling it for days.

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