Smooth. Cold.
Laced with venom.
"If it's not too much trouble, Magnar…" came the voice, "…a few of us would like to speak to Max. Privately."
Max turned sharply.
His eyes landed on Azula.
She stood with her usual haughty expression, her arms crossed, a faint smirk playing on her lips like a predator eying its prey.
Max's jaw tightened.
'This woman... She's plotting something.'
King Magnar's expression immediately darkened.
"Azula," he said, "this is not the time."
His voice grew colder.
"We're twelve hundred miles deep into the forbidden zone. We don't have the luxury to indulge in politics or power games."
He gestured around.
"And lest you forget, it was your map that led us to this empty zone—nothing but fog and ruin. Perhaps you should consider that before demanding anyone's time."
Azula's expression twitched for a fraction of a second.
But she smiled again, covering it up with practiced grace.
