The herald's voice rang out, smooth as silk, sharp as a blade.
"Sir Kai of Velshorn… Champion of the South."
The massive doors groaned open, and the warmth of the banquet hall rolled over him like a wave — not the comforting hearthfire kind, but the stifling heat of too many eyes watching, measuring, deciding.
Kai stepped forward. His boots struck polished marble, the sound crisp and hollow, echoing into the vaulted chamber. For an instant, the echo was the only thing moving — every other presence in the room had turned toward him.
A hundred nobles watched.
A hundred smiles bloomed like poisonous flowers.
He walked the long aisle between tables set with enough silverware to arm a small militia. The chandeliers dripped gold light over jeweled goblets and crystal decanters. To the untrained eye, it was a feast.
To Kai, it was an armory.
