The hall, once filled with murmurs and scrutiny, fell into a suffocating silence under the weight of Alexander's voice.
His jewel-blue eyes burned with fury, the intensity of his gaze enough to make even the most seasoned nobles recoil.
The air itself seemed to shift—thick with an icy rage that radiated from the Duke of Dalton as he pulled Eleanora away from Cathain, shielding her with his presence before stepping forward.
"She was only six—six years old!"
His voice thundered, each word carrying the weight of years spent swallowing his grief.
"And you all—"
His gaze swept over the room, sharp enough to cut through steel,
"—chose to blame a child instead of comforting her?! You whispered, judged, and turned your backs when she needed you the most!"
The nobles stiffened, shame creeping into their expressions, their gazes darting to the polished marble floor beneath their feet.
"Where was your concern then? Where was your loyalty, your supposed compassion?"
