Lance walked in unceremoniously, exuding arrogance with every step. His arrival did not come with pleasantries—no greetings, no acknowledgments.
He simply strode forward with singular purpose, eyes fixed on the trolley Isolde had wheeled into the room.
Without so much as a moment's hesitation, he reached it and yanked away the dark black tarp covering the silver device beneath.
A collective gasp surged through the room.
Some guests raised their hands to cover their noses, others looked visibly nauseated, and a few narrowed their eyes, not in horror, but in cold calculation.
Regardless of their individual reactions, every gaze remained locked on the grotesque object now unveiled.
A detached human head.
It wasn't as if this was something utterly foreign to them. These were nobles—Von Heim nobles, no less.
They had all, in one form or another, been acquainted with violence. Yet this was different. It wasn't just the brutality—it was the message. It was the setting.
