(Almera POV)
The Sun Hall was already awake when I arrived.
Light poured in through the high lattice windows, catching on polished stone and gilded columns. The court assembled with practiced efficiency—ministers in layered robes, councilors with measured expressions, scribes poised like shadows along the walls. The air hummed with restrained anticipation, the kind that always preceded an announcement of consequence.
I stood at my assigned place, a step behind the inner circle. Imperial Consort. The title still felt unreal on my tongue, heavy with implication even when unspoken. Since Zafira's fall, the hall had felt different—quieter, sharper, as if everyone were testing the limits of the silence.
Romulus entered without ceremony.
He did not need it.
