Inside, Dietrich burned with angry. His chest heaved beneath the weight of his rage, though outwardly he forced himself to remain composed. His poison, supposedly strong enough to kill a demon, rare enough to empty a vault of gold, had vanished into nothing, as though it had never existed.
He tightened his grip on the armrest until his knuckles blanched white. The urge to leap forward, to shout, to demand answers, clawed at him like a beast. But the eyes of the empire are upon him. A single crack in his composure, a single slip of temper, and suspicion would be born.
So he laughed. The sound is sharp, hollow, too loud for the hall with filled with the slow music and nobles already start to get drunk. He rose to his feet, spreading his arms wide as though everything had been nothing more than theater.
