The old woman struck the podium once, the sound sharp enough to make silence fall.
She stood there, robes of crimson pooling like fire at her feet, her spine so straight it looked carved from stone. Her eyes swept the hall—not to see, but to be seen.
And then, her voice. Low, rich, dripping with self-assurance.
"The world has been growing fast, hasn't it? Cities sprawling, packs multiplying, kings crowning themselves rulers of dust. And all this while—they believed we were gone. They believed Crimson had withered away."
A bitter laugh left her lips, soft yet venomous.
"But they were wrong. We did not vanish—we watched. We waited. We endured. While they played at power, we perfected it. And now…"
She lifted her chin, a cruel smirk curling her mouth.
"Now everything they built, everything they claimed, everything they dared to call their own—belongs to us. To Crimson. To me."
The hall shifted uneasily. Some lowered their eyes. Others stared in awe. But her smile only widened, drinking in their discomfort as if it were wine.
And then—her gaze caught.
Isabella.
For one heartbeat, the mask cracked. The old woman's breath faltered, her hand tightening on the staff. Because in the glow of the silver torches, Isabella's eyes shimmered—violet, unmistakable, defiant.
Her own eyes widened. Recognition. Shock. The blood she thought buried had returned.
Quickly—too quickly—she smothered the reaction, snapping her head toward the man beside her. Her son. Isabella's father.
Her stare was sharp, demanding answers. His silence was sharper still.