Seris stepped forward, putting herself between Serapha and Asthia. Her eyes were hard.
"Say what you want, witch. You won't take her."
The Witch of Silence didn't react. She raised her hand slowly, pale and steady. The air broke apart around them.
Sound vanished. The fire went still. Even breathing felt impossible.
Reth's chest tightened. Elenya's grip on his arm weakened. His vision swam.
Seris's sword wavered. Her body shook, as if pressed down by something she couldn't fight.
Serapha spoke quietly:
"Die without a sound."
The silence gathered into a blade, closing in.
Then—
Laughter.
Rough, mocking, cutting through the quiet.
"Well now," a voice said, "what kind of gathering have I stumbled into?"
Out of the smoke stepped an old man in black robes lined with silver. His clothes were worn, his hair and beard wild and white. His eyes were half-shut, calm, almost bored.
