Tragos’ short nails dug into his palms, knuckles blooming white as the bones strained to hit something. He stood down, though, as ordered. He wasn’t going to argue with Ares. Not now. Not ever. He could want to hit Barak as much as he wanted, but if Ares said no, Tragos would not disrespect him by defying that.
He caught Marcie’s eye as she looked over at him, and lifted his chin a little, encouraging her to keep hers up too. Don’t wilt, don’t waver, don’t show any weakness. Not here, god, not here.
Ares sized up the accomplices again, watching Ezio most of all. “So what’s it to be, boys? Anyone wanna tell me how far Barak has gone behind my back? How many of you are there planning on undermining me? Quick! Whoever speaks doesn’t get his teeth rammed down his throat.” Ezio crumpled like a wet paper bag.
Like that, thought Tragos. Don’t crumble like that.
Ezio named a couple of others - not Cy? thought Tragos skeptically - but the others he named were obvious, the men closest to Barak.