The word hung.
Influence.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just… there.
And that was enough.
The crowd didn't erupt.
They didn't scream.
They didn't run.
They shifted.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Away.
It started with one step.
Then another.
A man pulling his sleeve from where it brushed Alistair's arm.
A woman dragging her child a little closer to her side.
Not fear.
Not yet.
But distance.
Elara felt it first.
The change in the air.
She turned—
not to Diana—
to Alistair.
Her eyes narrowed.
Not in anger.
In calculation.
"You said influence," she said.
Quiet.
Too quiet.
Alistair didn't answer immediately.
That hesitation—
small—
barely noticeable—
was enough.
A voice from behind:
"So it is him."
Not loud.
But it carried.
Because it fit.
Too well.
"No—" Elara started.
But she stopped.
Because she didn't have proof.
And right now—
neither did he.
"I didn't say that," Alistair replied.
Calm.
Measured.
Too controlled.
