The dam burst. The votes for the young Baron began to surge at a terrifying rate.
The scribe's voice went from steady to hurried, and then, eventually, it became almost mechanical in its repetition.
With every vote he announced, the faces of the Iron Wall Marquis's supporters grew a shade paler.
The whispers and smiles from the Iron Wall Marquis's section vanished.
In their place was a kind of suppressed silence.
Everyone's eyes were fixed on the ballots in the chief scribe's hands.
The composure on the Iron Wall Marquis's face was gone. His straight back had grown slightly rigid, and his gaze shifted from its initial calm to scrutiny, and then to incredulous shock.
He stared intently at the vote-counting scribe, as if trying to bore through the pieces of parchment with his eyes.
The scribe's voice echoed under the dome, each announcement causing some nobles to unconsciously shift in their seats or reach for the hilts of the swords at their waists.
