The silence that followed Serena’s "No" was not merely a lack of sound; it was a physical weight, a crushing atmosphere that seemed to suck the oxygen from the vast, industrial hall. It was the sound of an empire cracking, the sound of a death warrant being signed in the space of a single breath.The priest’s face went from pale to a sickly, translucent grey. A bead of sweat broke from his hairline and traced a slow, agonizing path down his temple, vanishing into the collar of his vestments. He swallowed, the sound loud in the vacuum of the room, a wet, clicking thud. Behind him, the armed guards on both sides shifted, the subtle rustle of fabric and the metallic clink of holsters acting as the only heartbeat in the room.Victor Volkov did not move. He did not flinch. He remained as still as a statue carved from the very obsidian he seemed to embody. His blue eyes, usually like frozen lakes, turned into something darker, deeper, a glacial abyss. He looked down at Serena, his expressio
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