The throne room wasn't what Rama had braced for.
No gold dripping from every surface, no theater of intimidation built to make visitors feel small before a single word was spoken. Just proportion — high ceilings, stone pillars carved but not gaudy, light falling through narrow windows in clean bars across a floor worn smooth by generations of feet. A room built to be used, not merely admired.
The man on the raised seat at its far end matched the room. Middle-aged, solidly built rather than lean, a face weathered by decisions rather than decoration. No crown, Rama noted — just a simple gold band, unadorned, worn the way a working tool got worn rather than displayed.
Their daughter had gone very still on Rama's shoulders, absorbing the room's scale in silence.
Ardhana didn't rise. He studied them across the distance for a long moment, unhurried, the specific patient attention of a man accustomed to letting silence do work that words hadn't earned yet.
