I rose slowly, and silence fell almost at once. Not because I had spoken, but because I had moved. A single gesture, just one, my hand lifted, was enough to freeze the whispers. Their eyes locked onto me, pupils dilated by the flickering light, as though I held their breath between my fingers.
— "Rise."
My voice cracked like a whip, sharp, without raising the tone. The Saint, still kneeling at the center of the hall, lifted her head. Her white hair spilled across her shoulders, her robe stained with traces of travel contrasting with the flawless purity of her pale skin. Slowly, she stood. Her figure detached itself, fragile and yet imposing, within the circle of light I had deliberately left empty for her.
— "Seraphina Veyra."
I let her name roll in the air like a verdict. The nobles straightened in their seats, some blinking in shock, others pressing their lips, unable to hide their surprise.
— "From this moment forth, the Eighth Thorn."
