The peaceful, dusty silence of the lower gallery lasted for all of three minutes.
Before Xavier could finish his grand monologue about my dad's hypothetical favor-distribution policy, the massive wooden doors at the end of the hall swept open. It wasn't a subtle entrance. A small army of royal guards in polished silver armor filed in first, lining the walls with synchronized precision.
And then came the VIPs.
Leading the march was Director Sterling, the head of the Artifacts and Magic Research Society. He was a whirlwind of frantic energy, his robes flying behind him as he clutched a stack of glowing crystal tablets. Right beside him, walking with the effortless grace of someone who owned the room (and, well, the entire country), was King Rumin of Astra. The king wore a sweeping dark velvet cloak pinned with the royal sun crest, looking incredibly regal and surprisingly tired.
But it was the third person in their entourage who made my stomach do a complete double-flip.
Malachi.
