Then, with a slow but deliberate motion, Earl Prisk raised his hand into the air—his thick fingers spread wide, commanding attention.
As if controlled by an invisible string, the entire hall instantly fell silent.
The clapping ceased almost immediately, as though someone had cut the sound with a blade.
But... one pair of hands kept going.
The faint echo of that last, late clap rang through the now-quiet space like a blasphemy.
Earl Prisk's eyelids fluttered shut, his jaw clenching tight.
"That could've been perfect..." he muttered through gritted teeth. "But someone just had to go and ruin everything."
His voice was calm, almost low, but seething with rage, like a storm pressing behind thin glass.
Then, his eyes snapped open, blazing with fury, filled with something primal and terrifying.
His gaze pierced through the crowd like a knife.
I didn't understand why he was so enraged.
