The social reprieve provided by the shadow of the pillar was short lived. The music had shifted again, transitioning into a low, rhythmic pulse of strings that felt like the steady heartbeat of the Empire itself. The light from the floating mana candles seemed to dim as a heavy, metallic pressure began to roll across the ballroom floor. It was not the sudden, explosive frost of the North's arrival. Instead, it was a slow, inevitable tide that demanded acknowledgment.
Vane stood tall, his midnight blue suit feeling like a second skin as he watched the crowd part. Princess Anastasia moved with a grace that was surgically precise, her golden robes trailing behind her like a river of liquid sun. At her right shoulder, Grand Marshal Varron walked with the steady, thumping cadence of a man who had marched over the ruins of a dozen cities. He did not look at the minor nobles who scrambled to clear a path. His gaze was fixed entirely on Vane.
