The hall erupted into chaos. Servants screamed in terror, noblemen ducked under tables and scrambled to hide, and guards rushed in, weapons drawn, eyes scanning for any sign of the attacker.
Ambrose Steele, frozen in his seat, looked like a ghost. His face was pale, his skin slick with cold sweat, and his hand trembled as it hovered near the spot where the bullet had grazed him, leaving a thin trail of blood.
Asher stood still, his sharp eyes scanning the room, trying to make sense of the chaos. His mind raced, piecing together what had just happened. The boldness of the attack left him stunned—who would dare strike at Ambrose here, of all places, in the heart of the ruler's court?
Morgana moved swiftly to Asher’s side, her gaze darting around warily. She spoke in a hushed tone, her voi
