The council chambers had never felt so suffocating.
Even before the king's arrival, tension had already seeped into the very bones of the room.
Ministers, generals, and high-ranking nobles filled the grand hall, their voices lowered to uneasy murmurs, their expressions drawn and cautious. No one spoke too loudly. No one laughed. Even the scrape of a chair against marble seemed intrusive. It was as though the chamber itself knew something was about to fracture. Everyone feared the same thing...the king's wrath.
Among them, the most troubled was the king's hand—Lord Tiberin Dorrick.
He sat at his usual place, posture upright, hands folded neatly before him. To any observer, he appeared composed. Unbothered.
But his mind was anything but still. This will not go well, he thought grimly.
He had gone over the matter countless times since dawn. Replayed every possible outcome. Measured every word he might say. Discarded most of them.
