The silence was a physical thing.
A heavy, suffocating blanket of unspoken threats and shattered loyalties.
I strode at the head of my army, my long, dark coat swishing with a confidence I did not, in any way, feel.
Behind me, my two top commanders walked in a grim, silent procession.
Isabelle was a ghost, her face a pale mask of shock and despair. The weight of my monstrous, beautiful order was a physical burden, bowing her strong shoulders.
Chloe was a storm cloud, a silent, swirling vortex of pure, undiluted rage.
Her hand never left the hilt of her dagger, and her amethyst eyes were fixed on the back of Isabelle's head with an intensity that could probably set fire to stone.
This was a diplomatic mission.
It was the most hostile, aggressive, and probably very one-sided diplomatic mission in the history of the world.
"This is a bad idea, my Lord," Pixia whispered from her perch on my shoulder.
