The doors opened with a groan that rolled through the chamber, and silence followed like a tide drawing back from shore.
Metheea stepped inside, her feet sinking into the hush, her breath sharp with the weight of the place.
The High Court was larger than she had imagined.
Smoke from tall braziers curled toward the skylight above, gathering in pale streaks that blurred the dome of glass.
A circle of nobles stretched in rising tiers, their jewels catching the firelight so that they glittered like shards of ice. Some lowered their eyes when she passed, but most stared, bold and unflinching, measuring her as though she were already on display.
At the far end of the hall, the emperor sat upon his throne.
The wings of the carved dragon flared high over his shoulders, its claws gripping the stone arms where his hands rested.
Therion IX did not move, yet his stillness carried more weight than any gesture. She felt him watching, though his eyes never flickered from the chamber.
To his right, a single step lower, sat Azrayel.
The plainness of his chair only deepened the contrast with the throne above it.
His eyes found hers briefly, steady and searching. She looked away, unsettled by how impossible it was to read him. She felt the tension coil in her stomach at the sight of him, though he did not so much as glance her way.
To the emperor's left stood a man in layered robes the color of dark wine, a heavy chain slung across his chest. He did not fidget or bow as the others had. His silence spoke of familiarity with the dais, as if his place at the emperor's side was as permanent as the stone itself.
The herald's voice rang clear, cutting through her thoughts. "Metheea Feylisse."
Her name, sharp and bare, sent a ripple through the rows of nobles.
She forced her legs to carry her forward, across the stretch of polished stone until she reached the dais. Tradition demanded her knees meet the floor, and she obeyed, lowering her head beneath the weight of countless eyes.
A soft command from the herald allowed her to rise again. A servant gestured to a smaller seat carved from pale wood, set at the far right of the dais. It raised her above the nobles yet left her apart from both emperor and heir — neither equal nor hidden, but displayed.
The chamber settled again, silence growing heavy until the emperor broke it with three quiet words.
"The council may begin."
A rustle spread through the tiers as if every noble had been waiting to exhale.
The man in robes stepped forward first. His bow was shallow, confident. When he spoke, his tone rolled smooth and measured, like someone long used to being heard.
"Your Majesty," he said, "the court rejoices at the return of our princess. Yet she has lived far from the customs of our house. Tradition tells us such a jewel must not be left unguided. It is both honor and duty for the noble houses to place their finest attendants at her side. In this way her dignity is guarded, her burdens eased, and her station made as bright as it was meant to be."
Approval rippled through the rows, nobles murmuring as though the words were both wisdom and law.
Metheea caught a whisper from somewhere below. "High Chancellor Malrick. Ever the emperor's voice."
So this is the high chancellor. Back in Dythrid, her mother always voiced how irritating this man is.
The emperor's adviser, his keeper of law.
Before the echoes of agreement had faded, another figure rose. Broader, rougher, dressed in black edged with silver, a scar cutting across his jaw.
"Words are wind, Chancellor," he said.
"It is not enough to speak of honor. My house is ready to place its daughters at the princess's service. Others should do the same, so that her household may be filled. The empire must see her surrounded, not by silence, but by loyalty."
The court's reaction was sharper this time.
Some nodded in approval, others exchanged wary glances. His name followed quickly in a murmur that spread like smoke.
A voice carried from the benches below, half-whispered but clear enough: "Count Resca's making his move."
So this was Count Resca.
The recognition struck her at once. They have the same red, fiery hair she had seen in his daughter, Resme, glowing bright under the chamber's light.
Father and daughter both carried sharp tongues like blades, and now he dared to offer that very daughter to serve at her side. After everything that woman did to her?
The thought tightened in her chest.
Resme as an attendant? She should be kept in the stables. But Metheea pressed her lips together and held the words back.
The emperor did not move. His silence stretched long enough to make her throat tighten. Then his gaze slid toward her, and his voice fell like a stone dropped into deep water.
"What says the princess?"
All eyes turned to her. Even the oldest lords, whose families had held seats for generations, bent slightly in instinctive deference.
Metheea pressed her hands together, her voice calm, carrying across the chamber. "I will review those who serve me. No further action is needed."
Silence stretched for a heartbeat, then a ripple of subtle nods spread through the nobles. Count Resca's jaw tightened, but he bowed ever so slightly, the faintest tremor betraying his restraint.
Azrayel's gaze swept the hall, sharp and final. "She will choose herself.
If she refused, she would insult the houses. Every path seemed lined with snares.
Her hands pressed together in her lap until her knuckles ached. When she spoke, her voice carried more steadiness than she felt.
"I'm grateful for the offers," she said, her eyes brushing over the lords without resting on any one of them, "but choosing attendants is not something to be rushed. I want to know the people who would serve me before I decide. Accepting strangers blindly would be foolish."
The air crackled with the weight of silence. Some nobles lifted their brows as though impressed.
Others frowned, insulted.
Count Resca's jaw worked. His voice dropped, thick with restrained anger. "The princess doubts the loyalty of her own houses?"
Before Metheea could answer, another voice cut clean through the chamber.
"The princess has spoken," Azrayel said, voice clear and final.
Count Resca's jaw worked as he rose, speaking with careful tone. "Of course, Your Highness. I only meant to suggest that my house—" He paused, eyes flicking toward the other nobles, "—could offer guidance in choosing those who serve you well."
A few lords murmured their agreement, nodding subtly.
Metheea's gaze swept the hall. "I appreciate your counsel. I will consider all offers before making a decision."
The chamber exhaled collectively in acknowledgment. No one dared push further; the suggestion had been made, the princess's word respected.
The rest of the council moved on, voices rising and falling with routine business, while small calculations
The court gradually moved on to routine business, the debates of grain, land, and levy resuming as if her decision had only been one more motion in the endless rhythm of the chamber.
Dukes and viscounts argued, bowed, and pleaded their causes.
Metheea sat through it all, watching, listening, learning how each word weighed more than the one before it. She began to see that the High Court was not a council but a game, every gesture and silence another move on the board.
When at last the final dispute was closed, the emperor rose.
His movement was simple, yet it pulled the chamber with it. Nobles bent three times in ritual bows, silk brushing stone, jewels flashing like sparks in the firelight.
One by one they filed out, voices low, eyes sharp with their own calculations.
High Chancellor Malrick lingered longer than the rest. His gaze settled on her with the calm of someone already arranging his next moves. His bow was precise, so precise it felt like a warning.
Count Resca's passage was quicker, his shoulders rigid, his jaw set. He did not look at her directly, but she felt the bite of his fury all the same.
When the chamber finally emptied, Azrayel stepped at her side. For a while he said nothing, only walked with her, his boots keeping steady rhythm against the stone.
"You handled yourself well," he said at last, his voice quiet but certain.
She gave a small breath of a laugh, though it held no humor.
"Some of the nobles wouldn't think so."
His gaze shifted toward her, steady and unyielding. "Let them think what they will. No one should force you into anything."
She met his eyes, and the certainty there made her chest tighten.
They were softer than she expected, almost gentle, and heat rose to her cheeks before she could stop it. She looked away quickly, afraid he would notice.
"Thank you," she murmured. "For standing with me."
They left the hall with her composure intact, but inside she knew the truth. She had not won her freedom. She had only earned her place in the game.
And the game had only just begun.