Arik waited until the last candidate had left the palace before admitting that something was wrong.
Not publicly.
Not to Liam, who had already been dragged away by Rubis for the election commission review they had postponed twice that week, and certainly not to Severin, who would interpret the slightest concern as permission to disassemble Cyran Solvere's life down to childhood dental records before dinner.
Instead, Arik returned to his working office and found Kamal there.
The older man occupied one of the armchairs near the windows with a cup of tea balanced against one knee, apparently having decided that retirement, seniority, or simple audacity entitled him to enter the emperor's office without invitation. Autumn rain had begun again over Deira, streaking the glass and turning the city beyond into muted gray stone interrupted by the gold lines of the ether transit network.
Arik took one look at him.
"You are stealing my chair."
"There are six."
