Trafalgar kept his posture steady as Valttair's final words from the previous scene faded into the tense silence of the hall. The patriarch's presence alone reshaped the room—pulling all attention toward him like gravity.
He folded his hands behind his back, shoulders broad and unmovable.
"War between two Great Families is a tragedy for the world," Valttair said.
His tone was flat, almost bored—certainly not mourning.
"But for us? It is an opportunity. And opportunities are not wasted."
A few heirs exchanged looks. Darion straightened. Sylvar exhaled slowly. Even Seraphine's cold golden eyes sharpened, sensing the shift.
Trafalgar watched quietly, feeling that familiar pressure tighten in his chest.
'Right. Let the world burn as long as Morgain gains something. Cold bastard… but predictable.'
Valttair's gaze swept the semicircle of heirs and wives before landing on Lysandra.
