I rise to whispers. This is no simple squabble now between boys. It is the battle of houses. Champion against champion.
“Hic sunt leones,” he says, tilting his head—part challenge, part benediction. Here be lions. His house’s motto. What a vain swine of a man. He knows my desperation to stay in his good graces. He knows he stands playing with matches on a powder keg. Yet his eyes glitter lustfully, hungering for blood and the promise of power as I hunger for air.
“Hic sunt leones,” I echo.