The Grand Conclave was a boiling cauldron of aristocratic fury.
Every seat in the massive, circular hall was filled. The air was thick with the scent of expensive cologne, ancient privilege, and the sharp, metallic tang of political bloodlust. Lord Harrow had invoked the Rite of Purification, a draconian law not used in two centuries, designed to protect the "purity" of the royal bloodline.
King Varik sat on the obsidian throne at the head of the chamber. He looked entirely relaxed, his posture relaxed, his expression carved from ice. But beneath the surface, his Alpha aura was a coiled spring, vibrating with lethal intent.
Lord Harrow stood at the center podium, his silver cane resting lightly on the polished stone floor.
"The Crown is compromised," Harrow’s voice rang out, smooth and
