"What in the world is this?"
The once poised Elven king bent his back. Knuckles turned white as his fists clenched tightly. Nothing could describe the heavy pressure crushing his consciousness as though a fist was squeezing it tightly. When he glanced at his sides, he realized he wasn't the only one feeling the intense oppression. However, it seems not all of them was painfully enduring the brain-pounding experience. Unlike his pained and groaning councilors, the High Lord sitting at his side bore dark, terrifying eyes, frightfully drilling on the still white-haired maeruthan speaking with a different voice.
Lord Hercullio looked as if he would draw his sword from his sheath and point his merciless blade on the snow-white neck of his beloved one. Nordehl was confused. However, he didn't have the time to pay attention to it. He stiffened, throat constricting when Moulin's unfamiliar glowing eyes turned to meet his gaze.
