[Silthara Palace—Throne Hall—Night—Continued]
The torches burned lower as the silence stretched; no one in the hall dared to move.
Aelira Veyrhold, her head bowed, her hands clasped tightly before her, though the tremor in her fingers betrayed the fear she tried to hide. The weight of the hall pressed on her from every side—the pillars, the braziers, the throne behind the emperor—all of it felt like judgment.
Zeramet stood only a few steps away, too close. His shadow covered her completely, and the golden glow in his eyes did not soften even slightly.
"Speak."
The word came quiet and deadly.
Aelira swallowed, forcing her voice to steady, "…Malik… I meant no disrespect to Zahryssar."
His expression did not change; his gaze sharpened further. "That was not the question. I asked why you came, and I do not ask twice out of patience."
The braziers crackled loudly, the only sound in the vast hall. Aelira slowly lifted her head, just enough to look at the floor in front of her.
