The Imperial Palace had never been a place of mercy. Towering white pillars stretched toward a ceiling painted with the ancient victories of forgotten emperors, while rows of dark crimson banners hung motionless in the suffocating silence. Hundreds of nobles, ministers, and royal officials lined both sides of the immense hall, each standing perfectly still, scarcely daring to draw a full breath.
No one spoke. The only sound echoing beneath the vaulted ceiling was the rhythmic, heavy tapping of armored boots against polished marble.
Roland Tharon strode through the enormous iron doors without bowing his head. His broad shoulders remained squared and his features carved from cold stone, yet beneath his composed façade, irritation churned violently. The imperial summons had arrived only hours earlier without a single word of explanation—only an absolute mandate to appear before the Throne immediately. His instincts whispered that something was deeply amiss.
