The room didn't just go quiet—it froze.
The actual temperature nosedived. The air turned blade-sharp, winter-sharp, the kind of cold that sneaks into Harold's lungs and gave them a stern talking-to. It then pressed down on the table, the chairs, every soul in the room—but laser-focused on Harold.
Like gravity had singled him out and whispered, You owe me for existing.
"And you'll realize how insignificant an ant you are, you child-killing scum."
Harold choked in a wet, ugly, hacking convulsion that sounded like his lungs were staging a jailbreak through his trachea.
Blood exploded across the table—vivid crimson on dark wood, tiny flecks landing on the very papers Rune had just shoved at him.
Phei leaned back in his chair.
He was not horrified. He registered this about himself with some mild interest.
