The Great Royal Council Hall pulsed with an unusual tension that morning.
High windows bathed the white marble chamber in golden light, but there was no warmth in the air—only the chill of expectation. A rare summons had been called, and the full Council was present, seated in their semicircle of ancient oak chairs, polished by centuries of power.
At the far end of the hall, seated atop the High Seat of the Kingdom, was King Paul, regal in his deep sapphire cloak, his wolf-grey hair pulled back and bound with a gold circlet. He did not speak, not yet. But his eyes were sharp—sharper than they had been in months.
In his hand, he still held the sealed parchment.
A letter, cryptic and carefully worded, sent days ago by his son: Lord Heiko of Almira.
The seal was unmistakable. The words,
