The great hall in Birmingham smelled of old stone and polished wood. Lara stood at the center dais in a dark green gown, her blue braid pinned tight against her scalp like a helmet. Three weeks of rehearsals had drilled every word into her.
The council members filled the lower benches in controlled numbers—only those she and her allies had cleared. No full session. No open debate. Just a limited audience to show the heir was alive and the line secure.
She read the prepared statement in a clear, steady voice. The child remained in good health under the protection of the pavilion. Progress on border agreements continued. Minor trade concessions had already been extended to loyal houses.
She kept it short, factual, and empty of real details. When she finished, she folded the single sheet of parchment and placed it on the table for viewing. Selected lords could approach one by one under guard.
