He was still seated, still composed, still wearing that same unreadable expression. But something had shifted. The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Several of the lesser nobles found themselves leaning back without quite knowing why.
Northern's fingers tapped once against the table. The sound was sharp in the sudden quiet.
"I've been listening to this discussion for the better part of an hour." His voice was calm—the calm of someone delivering a terminal diagnosis. "And I have to admit, I'm disappointed."
He looked around the table, meeting eyes one by one. None held his gaze for long. Some glanced away. Others suddenly found their wine goblets fascinating.
"Not because you're afraid. Fear is rational. The Empire is vast, your kingdom is small. The mathematics of your situation are genuinely unfavorable." He paused. "I'm disappointed because not a single person at this table has asked the right question."
Duke Sethran's eyes narrowed. "And what question is that?"
