The Royal Palace did not mirror the sweltering, gilded decadence of the South. It was a monolith of white granite and jagged obsidian, built to withstand the crushing weight of a thousand winters. Today, its Great Hall was filled with a different kind of pressure, the silent, suffocating tension of a political execution.
The King sat upon the High Throne, his fingers drumming a rhythmic, predatory beat against the armrest. Beside him, standing in the shadow of the dais, was Herschel. The Prince was a man of quiet, unnerving stillness, his eyes like polished flint as he watched the proceedings.
In the center of the hall, the four Vernhardt siblings knelt. They were stripped of their silk and their dignity, dressed in the rough, grey wool of prisoners. Their hands were bound in heavy anti-magic manacles that hummed with a low, corrective frequency.
But the seats reserved for the Duke and Duchess of Aldenar remained empty.
