🦋 ALTHEA
The words dropped into the hall like stones into still water.
The room went quiet, but not with shock or confusion. The stillness pressed down like fog, thick and suffocating, the kind that settled before a storm broke.
One of the Vargans spat on the ground. "A joke. She dares—"
"Pathetic," another sneered.
"Lying cur—"
"She mocks us—"
Even the crone's face shifted, her expression darkening with something that looked like disappointment. Like I'd wasted her time. Wasted everyone's time.
"Silence."
The Hell Hound's voice cut through the noise like a blade.
The hall fell quiet immediately.
He took a step toward me, slow and deliberate, and my breath caught in my throat.
"Prove it," he said, his voice flat and cold.
I blinked, my heart hammering. "What?"
"The silver moths," he continued, his tone sharp. "Create them. Now."
My stomach dropped.
Create them?
Here?
Now?
