Chapter 9 · The Shaking King

"Get your hands off me before I rip them off your wrists!" Grom roared.

His voice cracked.

He wasn't just loud; he was vibrating. The Troll King—a mountain of grey, pebbled skin and muscle that could crush a carriage—was curled in a fetal position on a slab of obsidian. He was shaking so hard the entire floor hummed.

Julian didn't budge. He kept his palm pressed firm against the King's massive forearm. Through the psychic tether, he tasted Sloane’s disgust. Sharp. Metallic. Like sucking on a copper coin.

She was three paces back, hand on her hilt, eyes darting between the sobbing monster and the human shrink who was actually touching it.

"He's pathetic," Sloane spat. "This is the 'Terror of the Iron Peaks'? He looks like a frightened puppy."

"Shut up, Sloane," Julian snapped. He didn't look back. "He's having a massive panic attack. If he loses control, he'll level this wing of the palace. You want to be the one explaining to the Overlord why his favorite throne room is a crater?"

Sloane scoffed, but she didn't move. Julian felt her curiosity poking through the anger—a thin, electric thread of interest.