The throne room was quiet when Isla entered. The air was thick with incense and unease, the morning sun spilling pale light through the tall windows. The council waited, seated around the long obsidian table, each face painted in neutrality but their eyes alive with tension. They had all come dressed in fine colors, but beneath the silks and jewels lurked fear.
Luca stood by the far wall, arms folded, eyes sharp. He had warned her before the meeting. "They're beginning to question you," he had said. "They whisper that the fire is changing you."
He had not been wrong.
As Isla took her seat, the council rose in forced respect. Their leader, Lord Verran, cleared his throat. "Your Grace," he began, voice careful, "we offer our congratulations on the stabilization of the northern border. However… there are matters we must discuss. Matters that concern your methods."
