(Narrated by one who sees all chambers, hears all whispers, and knows that truth dies first in rooms where power gathers.)
Dearest reader, if you had stood in the Grand Council Chamber that morning, you would have sworn the air itself had turned to knives.
The room was a monument to Nevareth's ancient glory, a massive circular space crowned by a domed ceiling of ice crystal so pure it caught every ray of weak winter light and shattered it into cold rainbows.
They danced across walls carved with the empire's history, across the long obsidian table that dominated the chamber's center like a sleeping serpent, across the faces of nobles who had come dressed for war wearing silk instead of steel.
The table itself was a work of art and intimidation both.
Black stone polished until it reflected like dark water, carved along its edges with scenes of conquest and coronation, of treaties signed and enemies vanquished.
