"Why?" Alice continued coolly, her voice carrying clearly through the ballroom. "Go on. Speak freely. Say it again—that the North is full of barbarians, bloated with empty pride. That its nobles hide behind bluster and tradition. That I have a foul mouth."
The murmurs around her faltered.
Slowly, deliberately, she reached for her gloves.
They were finely tailored, white leather stitched with gold thread—emblems of the North's authority, unmistakable in their design. One by one, she slipped them off, exposing her bare hands to the chilled air of the hall.
Her gaze never wavered.
"However," she said softly, "be prepared if you intend to speak."
—Thunk.
The sound was sharp and final as the gloves struck the marble floor, echoing far louder than they should have in the suddenly quiet ballroom.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
Some nobles stiffened.
Others swallowed hard.
A few looked away altogether.
Alice's eyes swept the room, unhurried, merciless.
