The two cloaked figures stopped in front of them. Up close, the pressure from the taller one was suffocating. A sword rested at his waist, the sheath etched with faint runes.
Then, the giant spoke — a deep, gravelly voice that made the floor seem to vibrate.
"Are these fledglings supposed to escort us?" he said, his tone dripping disdain. "Is this the best your guild can provide?"
A wave of murderous intent burst from him — raw and suffocating. The room went silent. Conversations cut off mid-word. Mugs slipped from hands. The very air felt thick, heavy enough to choke.
Oliver's breath hitched — his pulse pounding, his instincts screaming danger. Ariana paled, her fingers tightening on her staff as her knees trembled. Around them, even the seasoned adventurers in the hall began to falter, some dropping to one knee under the invisible pressure.
But Isolde didn't flinch.
Her expression turned cold — utterly still. Then, her lips curled into a dangerous smile.
