(Arthur POV)
The throne room of Draconia had always felt too large for its purpose.
Even now, as sunlight spilled through the high arched windows and gilded pillars cast long shadows across the marble floor, the vastness of it all felt excessive—ornate banners embroidered with the sigil of the imperial dragon, crimson and gold dominating every surface, as if power itself needed constant reminder.
I stood at the foot of the council dais, hands clasped behind my back, posture straight.
Waiting.
Not slouched.
Not restless.
Not bored.
The old Arthur would have found this unbearable.
The old Arthur would have scoffed at the council's endless debates, rolled his eyes at tradition, whispered jokes to the guards, or deliberately arrived late simply to prove he could.
But the man standing here now waited in silence.
And the council noticed.
