A complete day has passed since Kent was proclaimed as Golden Heir.
While the city still trembled under the echoes of his name, the Sixth Elder of the Syndicate came in person. His long robes shimmered with runes of authority, his presence commanding, yet his smile was unusually warm as he approached Kent's resting chamber.
Kent, seated calmly with a cup of tea in hand, did not rise at once. His wives and Fatty Ben were present, and so were several attendants holding gifts from earlier guests. The elder's arrival caused a hush; even Fatty Ben straightened his spine and put away his lazy grin.
The elder bowed his head lightly, showing a courtesy no one expected. "Golden Heir," he said, his voice carrying the weight of ritual, "your name is a storm carried across all seven nations. Even tonight, the gates of the city cannot close, for nobles, sect masters, and merchants gather outside, all desperate to catch a glimpse of you, to offer gifts, to beg for a word."
