The air within the Hall of Radiant Thrones had reached a point of absolute saturation. It felt as though every molecule of oxygen in the gargantuan chamber had been incinerated by the mounting tension, replaced by a suffocating void that weighed heavily on the lungs of every noble present. High above, the sunlight filtered through the stained-glass windows, illuminating swirling motes of dust that looked like spectral witnesses to the unfolding drama.
Lodgar Solari took a step forward, his movements possessing a practiced, artificial elegance that reeked of the Highgarden courts. In his hands, he held a thick parchment document, its edges yellowed to simulate age and its weight suggesting a terrifying finality. With a dramatic flourish that bordered on the theatrical, he broke the crimson wax seal—a seal that bore the unmistakable mark of the Northern Wolf, the official sigil of House Sudrath.
