The stifling atmosphere of the imperial palace banquet hall had felt less like a formal luncheon and more like an execution where the executioner kept offering polite dinner rolls. By the time King Alderon finally dismissed the court, Zarius's patience had evaporated entirely. The political maneuvering, the passive-aggressive jabs from Yerel, and the suffocating weight of the neutral lords' gaze had pushed his tolerance to its absolute limit.
He didn't stay a second longer than protocol required. Leaving the grand palace doors behind, Zarius marched toward the courtyard where his carriage was prepared, his long black coat snapping against his boots with every aggressive stride. Elios and Flio followed closely, both men looking visibly exhausted but relieved to have escaped the palace walls without any blood being shed on the marble floors.
"Your Grace," a calm, even voice called out from the side of the courtyard.
