A breathless hush fell over the hall — the kind of silence that pressed against the skin, thick and waiting. Even the flicker of the candelabras seemed to still, as though flame itself dared not move. All eyes were on me, but their weight felt strangely distant, muffled beneath the pounding of my own pulse.
The Queen's face was unreadable, carved from the same marble as the pillars behind her. Her hands rested lightly on the arms of her throne–she had returned after throwing me the gauntlet–but I could feel the force of her gaze on me; it was sharp, assessing, heavy with something I couldn't name.
I could hear the murmurs starting in the far corners, low as a snake's hiss.
"They're saying she's mad," a voice hissed from somewhere to my left.
"No… bold," came another, softer but sharp, as though the word itself might cut them.
"Bold will get her killed," someone murmured behind me.
"She turned the Queen down…"
"Madness…"
"Or brilliance…"
"…never seen anything like it."
