The silence that followed the command was absolute. The crowd froze, all eyes drawn toward the voice that cut through the rising tension. Students shifted as if a current moved them aside, and soon the source came into view.
A servant pushed a wheelchair toward the fountain, the wooden wheels creaking faintly against the stone. The man seated in it wasn't large or imposing, but the weight of his presence carried farther than height or strength ever could. His dark hair, trimmed short, framed a face lined from years of battle. His right leg was strapped with a brace, the limb stiff and unmoving. Even in the chair, he commanded the space as if the courtyard itself bent to him.
Vencian recognized him at once. Amadeus Navorian. His name surfaced easily from memory—war hero, once High Marshal of the Airantis Elite Legion. A man whose victories against the Sedronian army were still told in taverns. His body bore the cost of that legacy, yet his authority had only grown stronger for it.
