The silence that followed Bront's declaration was suffocating.
No one dared to move, no one dared to breathe.
Even the chandeliers seemed to dim under the weight of the tension.
After all, what Bront did didn't just destroy the festive mood—it was also disrespectful toward the Velmoria kingdom, the host of the festival.
That was when—
Clang... Clang... Clang...
A faint metallic rhythm began echoing across the marble floor.
At first, no one noticed.
They assumed it was just the lingering hum of weapons, or maybe the musicians, who were unsure whether to resume playing.
But then it got louder.
Clang-Clang! Clang!
Heads turned.
Brows furrowed.
Someone muttered, "...Is that part of the song?"
Then, before anyone could answer—
"WHAT—DO—YOU—THINK—YOU'RE—DOING?!"
BAM!
A streak of silver and scarlet armor dropped from the upper balcony, landing directly beside Raven and smacking Bront square in the back of the head.
