Aetherion froze.
The lightning still crackled faintly around his body, crawling across his skin like living veins, but his eyes widened as the realization struck him—he had broken his word. In front of the entire elven kingdom. In front of the Mother Tree. In front of ancestors whose pride had defined their race for millennia.
He had used elemental energy.
Not just used it—he had erupted with it.
Silence fell.
It was not the heavy silence of fear, but something far worse for elves: disbelief. Faces stiffened. Brows furrowed. Lips curled downward in restrained disgust. For a people whose pride was law, whose words were bonds stronger than steel, this was not merely shameful.
It was abominable.
Silmarien did not let the moment breathe.
"To think," he said softly, his voice carrying effortlessly across the clearing, "that this is the man who wishes to be king."
He rose slowly from his seat, eyes cold as winter glass as he looked down at his brother.
