The hall was alive with motion. Servants passed in careful lines, arms burdened with scrolls, trays, and ledgers, their shoes whispering against the polished floor. The weight of dawn's business pressed heavy; palace life had no pause, no mercy, no softness. The morning itself felt like a blade—cold, bright, mercilessly sharp.
At the far end, near the tall windows that fractured the morning light into pale shafts, Alaric stood. His posture was perfect—shoulders square, chin high, the stillness of command etched into his frame. He looked immovable, a statue of authority cut from marble. Even the air bent around him, taut with discipline. His voice carried sharp, precise instructions as he addressed the cluster of attendants before him.
"Have the west wing accounts brought by noon." Each word struck like steel. "The repairs in the lower barracks must be completed within the week—no excuses."
