The silence in the wake of her defiance was a physical thing, a crushing weight that pressed down on the entire room. Arin stood before the three queens, her heart hammering, her chin held high, the metallic taste of her own blood on her tongue where she'd bitten her lip. She had thrown her last, desperate stone. Now, she would see which of the giants it had struck.
Sirenyth looked scandalized, her hand fluttering to her chest in a gesture of pure, theatrical outrage.
Elyra, from behind her veil, was a statue of pure, cold hatred. Her victory in the throne room had been stolen, and her rage had been simmering ever since. Arin's words were just fuel on an already roaring fire.
But it was Armyra's reaction that held the room captive.
