Morning light in Ivanova did not feel warm anymore.
It filtered through the tall stained-glass windows of the throne room in pale, divided colors—gold, deep blue, and faint crimson—spilling across the marble floor like fractured warnings.
King Ivan sat on the elevated throne, still and unreadable. His posture remained composed, but the weight in the room did not miss him—it gathered around him instead, like everything unresolved had chosen him as its center.
Below him, the council elders were already assembled.
The long war table stretched across the chamber, polished but now crowded with maps, marked borders, and scattered reports sealed in urgency rather than ceremony.
No one spoke freely anymore.
They spoke carefully.
Like every word had consequences beyond the room.
One of the generals stepped forward first, bowing briefly before placing a document on the table.
