The high, arched windows of the imperial palace's grand vestibule offered a panoramic view of the courtyard, but the men gathered inside were far more interested in observing each other. The atmosphere was thick with the heavy scent of imported cologne, wax-sealed parchment, and ambient anxiety.
Standing near the balcony, a small cluster of high-ranking nobles swirled their early-morning wine, their low whispers echoing off the vaulted ceilings.
"The Solaric delegates have already locked themselves in the east wing," Count Belmont murmured, his fingers nervously tapping against his glass. He was a man from the wealthy, interior agricultural lands, someone who dealt exclusively in grain tariffs and ledger books, entirely unequipped for the threat of imperial steel. "Even with the rumors of their journey's mishaps, the elite vanguard they brought into the city is no joke. If this treaty falls through, my lands will be the first trampled under their march."
