The air in the arena had shifted.
Even the crowd could feel it. The stage where Serena had been carried off moments ago still smelled faintly of ozone and scorched cloth. Yet, when Reed Venn stepped onto the platform, it was as though the tension had been muffled. Blurred.
In fact just focusing on the arena became challenging and, as if hypnotized, nearly everyone in the arena—from the audience, to the announcers, to the cameramen—seemed to have been struck by a severe case of ADHD as they became distracted by any and everything outside of the Dark Moon corner of the stage.
Even Isolde, who'd somehow managed to reduce the effect of Balens' wishes wasn't immune to Reed's gift, but she still didn't completely ignore him.
Isolde Blacheart stood across from him, framed in molten crimson light from her phoenix's wings as it hovered silently behind her. Her face was unreadable—as if her thoughts were tucked away in a box even she no longer remembered how to open.
