"Götter?" The first nobleman's face paled, shock and disbelief washing over him. The room erupted into murmurs, the other noblemen exchanging astonished glances.
"How can someone like her—a slave—speak the language of God?" one of them whispered.
"This slave?" the man sneered, pointing at her with disdain. "Impossible, Marquis Thornhowl!"
But the murmurs only grew louder, doubt and suspicion rippling through the hall as the weight of the revelation took hold. The noblemen exchanged uneasy glances, their voices hushed as they debated what they had just heard.
"How can a slave speak the language of God?" one of them muttered. "It's only taught to royalty and those chosen by the Goddess Aeon."
The disbelief hung thick in the air, and the once-confident arrogance of the nobleman who had entered her cell began to falter. He clenched his fists, clearly angered but unable to shake the growing uncertainty in the room.
"Well, that's exactly what we need to find out," another voice cut through the murmurs. His tone was calm but sharp, carrying the weight of reason. "Instead of harassing the prisoner and making rash judgments, why don't we wait for His Majesty to deliver the verdict?"
The nobleman's face darkened, his pride clearly wounded by the suggestion. "Are you trying to lecture me, Duke Wolfhart?" he snapped, his voice low and dangerous.
Wolfhart's expression remained composed, though there was a flicker of disdain in his eyes. "No, Count Greyfang. I'm just saying," he replied evenly, "no one wants a dog that barks louder than it thinks."
The tension between the two men was palpable, their exchange drawing the attention of the entire hall.
Their arguing ceased abruptly when the sharp sound of a guard's voice echoed through the hall. "His Majesty is entering!"
The noblemen fell silent, their postures stiffening as they turned toward the grand doors. She was still trembling on the cold floor, clutched her torn camisole tightly, her heart racing. Her thoughts were a swirl of confusion and fear, but there was no time to dwell on it. The air in the room shifted as the heavy doors slowly creaked open.
As the doors parted, a figure appeared—tall, regal, cloaked in dark, imposing robes. The king stepped into the hall with a commanding presence, and her breath caught in her throat. But it wasn't just his stature that sent a chill through her. It was his eyes.
Golden. Piercing. They locked onto her immediately, cold and unblinking, as if seeing through her very soul. His gaze was intense, detached, and in that moment, she felt a wave of goosebumps rise across her skin, the weight of his scrutiny chilling her to the bone.
The king moved forward with deliberate, measured steps, the room falling into an eerie silence as everyone awaited his next word. But she could feel it in the pit of her stomach—this was a man whose judgement could seal her fate with a single glance.