The little hall was unlike the grand palace rooms filled with chandeliers and gold trims. It carried a different kind of weight, one that pressed down on me the moment I stepped inside.
The air here was still, reverent, like it belonged to centuries of whispered confessions and stern judgments. Benches were arranged in neat rows on both sides, polished by the constant brushing of anxious hands and restless shifting.
At the far end sat a raised dais, a long carved table perched upon it, where I imagined men in robes had sat in judgment over disputes that could tear families apart.
The high ceiling made the room feel vast despite its modest width, its beams etched with curling sigils that seemed to breathe faintly in the low lamplight.
The walls, bare except for two torches flickering on either side, seemed to absorb sound, muting even the shuffle of my own shoes. It was a place that demanded silence, demanded truth, even when truth was inconvenient.
