The Gilded Forum sat in a crescent-shaped plaza carved into the heart of Westmarsh’s noble quarter. It was older than the city’s walls, a space where politics had always masqueraded as polite conversation. Gold-veined marble stairs and vine-laced balustrades encircled the arena, creating the illusion of openness—when in truth, everything was meant to contain.
By the time we arrived, dusk had pulled long shadows across the stone, and the warm lanternlight did nothing to soften the edges of the gathering. Lords, ladies, and emissaries stood in knots, dressed for indifference but hungry for news. They turned as we entered, not with surprise—but with calculation.
Thorne stood beneath a vaulted arch, hands clasped behind his back. He nodded slightly, and the murmur of voices shifted. We were
