The air in the mass room was thick enough to choke on. The silence that followed Malcolm's outburst was not merely a lack of sound but also a pressurized vacuum. Every head was turned toward the front, every pair of eyes wide with a mixture of shock and dawning realization. They had just seen the King of Deviloy—the cold, impenetrable Malcolm Ford—snap with the raw, jagged panic of a man watching his most precious possession being shattered.
Malcolm stood frozen, his hand still outstretched toward Luca, his fingers trembling with a phantom need to reach out and rip Holino away. His heart was hammering against his ribs like a caged beast, his vision pulsing with a silver-violet hue that threatened to swallow his rationality whole.
Then, the "consciousness" returned.
