The Grandhall, a cavernous expanse usually reverberating with jubilant accolades and infectious laughter, has suddenly morphed into a sanctuary of deafening silence. It's a hush so profound that if a pin were to drop, it would echo like a gong, capturing the undivided attention of every soul present. The air is thick, almost gelatinous, as if the collective anticipation and anxiety have solidified the atmosphere itself.
Charles stands at the epicenter of this charged environment, his aura radiating a form of leadership that could only be compared to a seasoned general in front of his troops. He locks eyes with Malachor, both men resembling tinderboxes, volatile and awaiting the smallest spark to ignite into an uncontrollable blaze. The tension between them is a palpable force, an electric current that could power cities.