For a long moment after her previous words, the room remained suspended in a heavy, thoughtful silence, the kind that carried not rejection—but calculation.
Iva could feel it.
The weight of their attention.
The gravity of what she had just suggested.
So when she spoke again, her voice came more carefully this time, softer—but still firm.
“I… don’t want to choose any packs.”
The statement landed with quiet finality.
King William’s brows drew together slightly, confusion flickering across his otherwise composed expression.
“But being the Messenger,” he replied slowly, his tone measured, “is a gift bestowed upon you by the Goddess herself.”
He leaned forward just a fraction, his sharp gaze locking onto hers.
“It would not be… fair… to withhold it.”
The implication was clear.
Power
