The morning light in the capital was pale and cold, a cold that matched the atmosphere inside the Council Chamber.
Elias sat at the head of the long table, his spine a rigid line of practiced composure. He had not slept more than four hours, but the silver-and-emerald diadem hid any trace of exhaustion. To the world, he was the Anchor—steady, unyielding, and increasingly indispensable.
Across from him, the Noble Houses were gathering. There was a new quality to their silence this morning. It wasn't the usual suppressed resentment; it was a sharpened curiosity.
Lord Belmain and Marquis Vane arrived three minutes late—a calculated breach of protocol that Elias noted but did not acknowledge. As they took their seats, Belmain offered a shallow bow, his eyes tracking the way Elias reached for his water carafe.
