Mortal Realm
The Capital of Birmingham
The palace.
The great hall of the king's castle hummed with echoes of polished boots and murmured counsel. The meeting had broken, and courtiers drifted away like leaves scattered by wind. Henry walked out at the center of it, advisors at his shoulders, the pope gliding in solemn pace beside him, and the merchant queen trailing in a perfume cloud that clung to her silks.
The air smelled of wax and incense, heavy with the residue of arguments that had passed like storm currents. The king's hand brushed the carved balustrade as he descended, the cool stone grounding him. Outwardly, he was smiling, face steady as carved oak. Inwardly, his thoughts were knives.
"We will not lose, folks," Henry's voice carried, slow and reassuring. "Our alliance is still strong. Even the empire has found their coalition, but ours is built through camaraderie, not fear—unlike how the warmaster, not the emperor but Warmaster Arthur, stitched his power."
