A murmur swept the hall. Everyone knew of the Silverfury gift: a piercing sight that could read the marrow of a soul, glimpsing what one might become, what choices one might make. Never precise, never perfect — but enough to unmask lies.
Silverfury's eyes glowed brighter. He swept the chamber once, slowly, and when his gaze settled, some nobles shifted in their seats. Two — a Foxkin and a Ramari, who had been whispering earlier — stiffened visibly.
A voice, nervous but defiant, broke the silence. Lord Thirven of the Boarfolk stood.
"That's ridiculous. His 'sight' is a party trick. He never joined the Alliance, never agreed to be a witness. Why should we trust him now?"
Others followed, their voices rising, many of them already steeped in secret cult ties.
"Yes, a hoax!"
"How convenient that a loner shows up just when everyone is suspicious!"
"Master Altan, you cannot—"
The chamber fractured into shouting, some condemning Silverfury, others fearful but uncertain.
