The court adjourned with the sound of ringing steel and murmured prayers.
As the Emperor rose from his throne, the nobles dispersed in slow, rippling waves of silk and armor. No one dared speak openly in Aric's presence — not yet. They whispered in half-formed sentences, their faces twisted in doubt, anger, and, beneath it all, fear.
Aric stood motionless as the guards approached. His posture was relaxed, but every line of his body radiated quiet control.
Serina, still cuffed beside him, wore the faintest ghost of a smile — the kind born not of amusement, but of dangerous satisfaction.
The High Marshal strode down the steps toward them, his voice hard as hammered iron. "The Emperor will consider your words, King of Byzeth. Until then, you will remain within the palace — as guests."
Aric tilted his head, eyes flicking to the ring of armed knights that surrounded them.
"Guests with a hundred blades for company?"
