The examination room in the Royal Barracks was a big difference to the festive, wine-soaked atmosphere of the Thompson estate.
It was a large, stone-walled chamber, cold and purely functional. The only decorations were old, faded banners of past victories and a large map of the kingdom spread across the central table.
Behind that table sat five men—the High Generals of the Kingdom. They were old soldiers, their faces weathered by sun, wind, and scars. They wore their uniforms not as costumes, but as second skins. Their eyes were sharp, unforgiving, and bored.
In the center of the room, standing alone like a child facing a tribunal, was Carlos.
He was sweating profusely. His new, expensive military coat felt tight around his neck, choking him. The confident swagger he had displayed in the carriage, the arrogance he had worn like armor, was gone, replaced by a nervous twitch in his left eye.
