The great hall did not announce its tension.
It did not raise its voice, nor did it alter its form, for the marble columns still stood in their unwavering symmetry, the banners of the empire hung in disciplined stillness, and the long rows of assembled nobles and officials occupied their appointed places with the same outward composure that had governed court for generations, and yet beneath that polished surface, beneath the measured stillness of silk and steel, there existed a quiet expectation that pressed against the air like a held breath that no one dared release.
They had all come early.
Not by instruction.
Not by command.
But by instinct.
Because something was about to be declared.
And in a court where power rarely announced itself without consequence, anticipation became its own form of tension.
