[Silthara Palace — The Grand Court — Dusk]
Dusk did not fall upon the court; it descended. The vast chamber stood hushed, not peaceful but restrained. Rows of nobles lined the hall, their silks heavy with lineage, their gazes sharper than blades concealed beneath courtesy. At the far end, upon the elevated dais, sat Zeramet.
Unmoving and unreadable, beside him is a throne. Empty and waiting. Not as absence but as expectation.
The air tightened and then—the herald's voice cut through it.
"The Malika of Zahryssar… Mother of the Empire… has arrived. All shall bow."
The words struck like a command—and every noble present responded. Silks shifted, knees met stone, and heads lowered not in hesitation—but in obedience carved by power.
The doors opened and Levin entered. Veiled, measured, and silent. He did not acknowledge the bows, did not pause, and did not falter; he walked straight toward the throne that waited beside the Malik's.
