The silence that followed could've suffocated lesser men.
Ambrose stared across the vast circular chamber, the seven Elders watching him from their elevated stone seats. Ancient runes glowed faintly beneath their feet, the air itself carrying a pressure unlike anything he'd felt since standing before the Pantheon.
Not exactly raw power but authority.
Centuries of it.
The elder who'd spoken remained unmoving, his weathered fingers resting atop a staff carved from blackened wood.
"So," the old orc repeated in flawless English, "in case you didn't hear me the first time. Before another word leaves your mouth..." His amber eyes narrowed. "...tell this Council why we should not order your execution."
For half a heartbeat Ambrose simply blinked.
The warriors who'd followed them in here held the hilts of their weapons, as if waiting for the orders of the Elders to strike. Even Keylath flung her head to him, expression unreadable.
