[Silthara Palace—The Imperial Court—Continuation]
The court rose—but it did not ease.
As the nobles withdrew to their appointed places, the air remained taut, stretched thin as a bowstring drawn too far. No whispers dared to take shape yet, but thoughts sharpened behind lowered lashes and measured breaths.
The throne had changed its shape, and Zahryssar had not yet learned how to breathe before it.
Levin sat still.
The veil softened the world before him; his blue eyes remained clear and observant. He felt the weight of every gaze pressing toward him—not curiosity, not reverence, but calculation.
Beside him, Zeramet leaned back against the throne, one arm resting along the carved head of the great serpent. His posture was loose, almost bored.
It was an illusion.
"You may begin," Zeramet said.
A scribe stepped forward, bowing deeply as he unrolled a strip of brown parchment, its edges worn smooth by time and record.
