The ambient roar of the ballroom—the frantic murmur of Great House representatives, the steady drone of Vincent Varas organizing the perimeter guards, the distant howling of the wind against the outer stones—all of it abruptly vanished from Anthony's awareness.
A sharp, searing pain flared behind his temples.
It was an acute, resonant frequency that vibrated deep within his own consciousness.
Anthony froze.
His breath hitched in his throat, and his fingers, resting against the cold marble of the pillar, dug in until his knuckles turned white.
His eyes widened, the dark irises dilating as his jaw slackened in profound, unadulterated disbelief.
"Impossible," he whispered. The word barely escaped his lips, lost beneath the hum of the room, yet it held the weight of an absolute fracture in reality.
It was a mental signature.
