In the high vault of the council chamber, a hush thicker than velvet settled over rows of gilded benches. Torches guttered against stone columns, their flames bending under a draft that smelled faintly of parchment, steel, and the distant perfume of ivy blossoms. The chamber, circular like an upturned shield, carried every breath in slow echoes toward the domed ceiling where the royal crest shimmered under lamplight.
Lucien stood at the very center on the rose-marble rostrum, an island under a hundred watching eyes. Sweat gathered beneath his collar, trickling along his spine despite the chill. Queen Elowen sat on the throne-dais, posture serene, golden gaze as calm as a candle protected by glass. She wore no crown tonight, only a simple silver circlet that made the nobles lean forward, uncertain which way power might tilt.
