They spoke her name, and the room forgot how to breathe.
Velrosa still had not moved.
Not a twitch, not a flutter of lash or gown.
Her expression was a masterstroke of poise, a calm lake that dared the wind to ripple it. That stillness carried power, the kind that unsettled.
Ian could feel it shift in the air—the tremor beneath elegance and wine. Power once suspected now confirmed. It twisted in the stomachs of courtiers, a subtle nausea that tasted like fear.
Because now it was real.
Not just murmurs. Not rumors from the Crucible stands. Not reports filtered through wine-soaked noble mouths.
The council had spoken her name.
Of the five names called, hers had landed like a Boulder.
And she smiled.
Not wide. Not triumphant. Just enough to say what was needed to be said.
They didn't applaud.
They never applauded danger.
Instead, the room swelled with murmurs—measured, practiced, hushed—but loud in their meaning. Some leaned close, muttering to spouses or allies.
