The acolytes stood in front of the booth while they waited for Ciprian to acknowledge them. They seemed different than usual, bolder, and he didn't like it one bit.
The rage he felt when faced with what was undoubtedly an ambush by the remainder of his chosen ones turned his blood to ice. With the exception of when he was with the enemy, Ciprian never felt so close to losing control of himself.
But he didn't lose control. He remembered who he was.
He was their Master still, even if traces of the doubt he'd spent his life trying to eradicate were written directly on their treacherous faces.
