Every eye in the council chamber remained fixed on the advancing mist as it curled around the table legs and feet of the chairs. The temperature continued to drop, breath now visible in small clouds.
"What the fuck are you all looking at?"
The voice came from beside them. Fifteen noble heads whipped around simultaneously toward the sound.
Grim Van Ambrose sat lounging in the previously empty Ambrose seat, one leg casually draped over the armrest, his white robes pristine against the dark wood of the ancient chair. His hood was pulled back, revealing his scarred face and the faintest smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.
The mist that had been spreading across the floor began to recede, flowing back toward him like water finding its level, disappearing into the hem of his robes.
"How...." Lord Terras sputtered, half-rising from his seat.
"Shut up and sit down," Grim said, not bothering to look at the man. "The adults are talking."
