The chamber was utterly silent—not the quiet of contemplation, but the thick, smothering hush of a tomb.
A strange observation, given the figures seated around the long oak table, their faces carved into sharp relief by the flickering candlelight. The air itself seemed to curdle with unspoken tension, the kind that pressed against eardrums and turned breath shallow. Even the flames seemed hesitant to dance too boldly, as if afraid to disturb what was being laid bare.
Jasmine's fingers drummed a slow, measured rhythm against the polished wood, the only movement in the stillness. Her silver laurel glinted as she turned toward Alpheo, the question in her eyes as sharp as a blade's edge.
"Are you sure?"
Her voice was controlled, but beneath it thrummed something taut—something between hope and dread, the last fragile thread before the fall.
