Between Ria's single seal and Lexel's pair, all three of the district's victory artifacts were fully accounted for.
The imperial organizer stood frozen by the gilded hourglass, the brass chime hanging limp from his trembling fingers.
The dead silence in the pavilion broke into absolute bedlam.
Tywain's father frantically shoved his way past the wooden guard rails, sprinting across the snowy cobblestones toward the forest barrier. His face was a contorted mask of pure, unadulterated panic, his fur-lined cloak flapping wildly in the winter gale.
He cornered Ria, his hands hovering over his sword hilt as he bellowed, "Where is my son?! What did you do to Tywain?!"
Ria didn't even flinch. She simply adjusted the wide brim of her witch hat, her bright blue eyes staring back with cool, unbothered composure.
"He should be sleeping in the forest," Ria replied casually.
