Damian stepped onto the stage.
The Mafia members moved back, giving him space. Luna stayed close for a moment, looking up at him, then stepped aside.
He walked to the microphone stand and pushed it away. The metal scraped against the stage floor, the sound echoing through the silent hall.
Then he looked down at everyone.
Nobody spoke or moved.
The weight of what they'd just witnessed pressed down on every shoulder, every chest, making breathing difficult.
"..."
Two minutes passed.
Damian's crimson eyes scanned the crowd slowly, taking in every section. New first-years sitting rigid in their seats, second-years who'd progressed through hell and back, third-years who'd survived battlefield missions and fourth-years who'd watched everything change.
"Fiona."
She jumped at hearing her name, then straightened.
"Take that guy to the medical clinic. We don't want him dying here."
