The throne room wasn't what Rama had braced for.
No gold dripping from every surface, no theater of intimidation built to make visitors feel small before a single word was spoken. Just proportion: high ceilings, stone pillars carved but not gaudy, light falling through narrow windows in clean bars across a floor worn smooth by generations of feet. A room built to be used, not merely admired. The air smelled faintly of sandalwood and cooler stone, a relief after the dust of five days' travel.
The man on the raised seat at its far end matched the room. Middle aged, solidly built rather than lean, a face weathered by decisions rather than decoration. No crown, Rama noted, just a simple gold band, unadorned, worn the way a working tool got worn rather than displayed. His hands, resting loosely on the arms of his seat, carried the calluses of someone who had held a sword at some point in his life and hadn't fully let the habit go.
