He kissed her forehead. She accepted it with the quiet grace of a woman who understood that this gesture, too, was performance — but that the feeling beneath it was not.
"You stopped my wives from starting a civil war in my banquet hall," he said, low enough that only the dais heard.
"Someone had to. Your Whisperers were three corridors away eating dates."
The Emperor's mouth twitched. The closest thing to a laugh anyone had seen from him in public in years.
He turned and walked towards his seat and sat in beside his wife.
The hall sat.
For a time, the Emperor simply observed. He ate sparingly — a bite of quail, a sip of wine — and spoke quietly with the officials flanking the dais. He watched the room the way a spider watches its web: not the strands, but the vibrations.
And then, between the fifth course and the sixth, he spoke.
"Count Kaezhlar."
The name dropped into the hall like a stone into a still pond.
Jolthar set down his wine.
