The slot snapped shut. The silence that followed was heavier than any they had endured in the woods. It wasn't magical, or oppressive—it was worse. It was the profound, soul-crushing silence of being put on indefinite hold.
The team just looked at each other, a silent, shared question hanging in the air. Had they won? Or had they just made things a whole lot worse?
They waited. A full minute passed.
Pip started drumming his fingers on his knee, a nervous, twitchy rhythm that only made the silence louder.
Zazu began counting the ceiling tiles, then froze mid-count, realizing there were no tiles at all—just a seamless white void. He looked even more disturbed.
FaeLina muttered Bureau bylaws under her breath like a frantic prayer, her voice buzzing in nervous loops.
And Sir Crumplebuns drew in a deep breath, clearly about to launch into a heroic speech about the nobility of waiting—only for Gilda to silence him with a glare sharp enough to chip stone.
