Belle did not rush the silence.
She let it bloom.
It spread through the hall like ink through water, slow and irreversible. Thousands of people sat frozen in the aftershock of her power, hearts hammering against ribs that had just learned how fragile posture truly was.
Even after she released them, even after gravity remembered its duty and returned to their bones, no one moved. No one dared pretend that what had happened was ordinary.
She stood at the center of the floating stage, blindfold gone, violet eyes open and terrible and luminous, and the air around her still hummed with the ghost of pressure.
"The thing," she said at last, voice calm, almost gentle, "even more beneficial than my sight…"
Her hand rose.
Not dramatically. Not with flourish. It was a lazy motion, the kind someone might use to brush dust from a sleeve. A casual wave, dismissive of effort.
The effect was catastrophic in implication.
