The pressure in the room didn't dissipate; it expanded. What had started as a sharp, localized surge of intent blossomed outward like a silent explosion, flooding the great hall with an invisible force that stole breath from lungs and stiffened spines.
The lantern flames along the walls flickered violently, their light bending and warping as if the air itself had thickened into something heavier than smoke.
Killing intent. Pure, unrestrained, and terrifyingly focused.
The mercenary manor reacted instantly. Every female mercenary in the hall stiffened simultaneously, years of instinct snapping taut in a heartbeat. Cups shattered as fingers clenched too tightly.
Chairs scraped backward; some rose halfway from their seats before catching themselves, faces pale and eyes wide with a mix of alarm and grim understanding.
This was not random rage. This was their leader, the Devil of the Crimson Whip.
