Silmarien froze atop the platform.
His eyes narrowed, moving from the drawn blades to the familiar face stepping forward from the crowd. Disbelief flickered across his features, quickly smothered beneath cold composure.
"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded, his voice cutting through the murmurs like a blade. "Regent—why is Aetherion not in his cell?"
Aetherion stepped fully into the light. His hair was unkempt, his face gaunt from imprisonment, but his eyes burned with vindictive clarity.
"Cell?" he scoffed. "You speak as though you had the right to put me there."
He spread his arms, gesturing to the armed nobles and guards behind him.
"You are a madman, Silmarien. A dangerous one. You do not deserve that crown."
A low wave of murmurs followed—some hesitant, some eager.
