The banquet hall had gone dead silent—the kind of silence that happens right before someone either becomes a legend or becomes a cautionary tale.
The only sounds breaking the silence were the soft drip, drip, drip of wine from the Emperor's stained robes and Song's continued whimpering apologies, which had now reached the level of performance art. Every eye in the vast chamber was locked onto the spectacle like they were watching the season finale of their favorite drama series.
'And honestly,' Pyris mused, 'this is better entertainment than anything I watched in my previous life.'
The Emperor stood there like a statue of imperial humiliation, his ceremonial white robes now looking like someone had used them as a canvas for abstract art—if the artist had been drunk and only had red wine as paint.
'Those stains are spreading like they have a personal vendetta against his dignity,' Pyris observed with satisfaction.
