The chamber of council was a grand hall carved from white stone, its vaulted ceiling etched with sigils of past victories, yet the flickering light of iron braziers cast shadows that seemed to gnaw at the carved laurels. A long oaken table, polished to a dark gleam, stretched like a river between the assembled men. Around it sat dukes, lords, and knights shoulders wrapped in fur-lined cloaks, rings glittering on thick fingers, their faces creased not by age alone, but by worry.
Wine goblets sat untouched. The air was too heavy with unease for even the warmth of liquor.
The discussion began not with courtesy but with disdain.
One noble, his beard long and silver like winter frost, struck the table with his palm. "I say it again, and I will not hold my tongue. Why should that boy who brought nothing but disgrace be buried among our heroes? Our forefathers carved their names in blood and honor. He carved his in scandal." His voice carried, echoing against the marble.
