The silence that followed in the Great Lodge could only be described as deafening.
The only audible sound except the crackle of the central fire-pit was the ragged, shallow breathing of twenty foreign envoys whose noses were still ground into the stone floor.
Elder Sarn felt a cold drop of sweat trickle down the bridge of his bleeding nose, mixing with the dust of the floor. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird.
Lone, weak tribe.
Elder Sarn's heart slammed against his ribs like a trapped bird beating its wings against stone.
Especially the icy, sarcastic edge in Veylara's voice, it cut right through the stagnant heat of the hall, chilling the blood in his veins to slush. Lone, weak tribe.
The phrase was a barbed whip, mocking every calculated whisper, every speculative border arrangement, and every arrogant assumption their clans had harbored while watching the Veynar bleed against the Coalition.
