The applause residue died mid-air.
Not dramatically. Not like a spell being snuffed. More like the amphitheater collectively remembered it had lungs and decided not to use them.
"I have a question."
Draven's voice wasn't louder than anyone else's. It just arrived with the clean weight of authority—keyed to the hall, keyed to the people, keyed to the part of Aetherion that existed to amplify command. A few claps tried to finish themselves, late and embarrassed, and then even those stopped. The soft hiss of the water-manifold fountains along the walls suddenly sounded indecently loud. Quills froze over slates. A scribe in the upper tier held his breath so hard his cheeks puffed.
Amberine felt it first in her skin. The prickle. The pressure. The way her own heartbeat became a private scandal, too audible in a room that had gone quiet.
Her heart lurched. Her palms went hot and slick at the same time. Her knees threatened a brief, humiliating betrayal.
