The room tilted.
The world held its breath.
One noble staggered back slightly, gripping the edge of a bench for support.
Another crossed himself, whispering a prayer against cursed names.
A third—Duke Elbern—laughed once, sharp and mocking. "And i will ask once more....what proof have you brought, then? A whisper in the wind? The screams of a battlefield hallucination?" He blurted now, his tone sharp as they come.
"Watch your tone," Lara said, steel edging her syllables.
But Claire held up a hand.
"No need," she said. "They'll see the truth soon enough."
She turned slowly.
"Our armies dwindle. Our coffers bleed. The Empire's soldiers never sleep. You feel it, don't you?"
A shift.
A silence.
Even the nobles couldn't lie about that.
None of them had dreamed in weeks. None of them dared say it. But the signs had begun — memory loss, fatigue, whispering voices that came only when one tried to close their eyes.
They were being starved.
But not of food.
Of rest.
Of hope.
