The room went silent.
Not the polite lull of people waiting to be acknowledged, but the hard, collective stop of momentum slamming into an unexpected wall.
Chris didn't raise his voice or move in his seat. He didn't even look angry. He sat there with his hands folded over the tablet, posture impeccable, tone level enough that it took a second for the words to register as what they were.
Several delegates stared at him as if he'd spoken in another language.
One of them laughed reflexively, then faltered when no one joined in.
Dax did not move.
That, Chris realized dimly, was worse.
The King's stillness sharpened. His gaze slid to the man who had been speaking, still mid-breath, mouth open, face flushed from the pleasure of his own argument.
"I beg your pardon?" the man said, finally.
