The Great Banquet Hall of the Astraia Palace was a cavern of shimmering gold and oppressive opulence, yet tonight, the air felt as thin and frigid as a mountain peak. Hundreds of crystalline chandeliers dripped with wax, their flickering flames struggling to illuminate the vast space. The scent of roasted venison, spiced wine, and expensive perfumes swirled in the air, but it could not mask the lingering, metallic tang of the battlefield that seemed to cling to Constantine like a second skin. Long tables groaned under the weight of a hundred delicacies, yet the clatter of silver cutlery against fine porcelain was the only sound that dared to rise above a whisper.
At the head of the royal table sat King Alaric, his robes of state appearing heavy, almost burdensome, as if the fabric itself
