The silence in the cellar was no longer just a lack of sound; it was a vacuum.
"The King," Elara whispered again. The hooked blade in her hand trembled.
"You sat at our table," Elara whispered, the hooked blade in her hand trembling—not with malice, but with a sickening vertigo. "You ate our bread while your Council sent guards to burn our homes. You watched us bleed and said nothing."
"I sat at your table as a man being hollowed out by the same poison that oppressed you," Alistair said, his voice low, steady. "I didn't bring the fire to your homes, Elara. I was the one they were trying to keep from seeing the smoke. I was their first prisoner. You were simply the ones they didn't bother to look away."
Jones stepped forward, his grip tightening on his sword. "It doesn't change what you are. You're a beacon. If the Elders sent something like Vane after you, then every soul in this Haven is marked. You've turned a sanctuary into a slaughterhouse."
