Nobody else moved. Nobody spoke. The killing intent filled the chamber like a physical presence, making it hard to think clearly, hard to do anything except focus on the primal instinct to survive.
Then someone started clapping.
The sound cut through the oppressive atmosphere, slow and deliberate applause coming from the back of the room near where the guild representatives had been sitting.
An old man stood up from a chair positioned in the corner, half-hidden behind some of the younger representatives who'd been blocking him from view. He looked to be in his seventies at least, with white hair and a weathered face marked by decades of scars that spoke of countless battles survived. He wore simple clothes, no guild insignia, no rank badges, nothing to indicate his status or affiliation.
But the moment he stood, the atmosphere in the room shifted.
