That Afternoon, the Grand Hall of the Tughril Khanate was a masterpiece of deception. Crimson silk banners draped from the high rafters like sheets of blood, and the luxurious scent of sandalwood incense masked the metallic tang of hidden steel. To the Chancellor, standing near the towering pillars, it was the most glorious sight he had ever seen. It was the sight of a tomb being prepared.
The Khatun Dowager sat in her seat near the throne, wrapped in layers of golden silk. From her elevated seat, she looked down at the hall, waiting for the tragedy below to begin.
She looked like a mother blessing a union, but underneath her perfect composure, she was a vulture waiting for the Khan to bleed out.
The Chancellor watched the Khan stand at the altar. The young ruler looked powerful in his gold-embroidered robes, his posture radiating strength. But to the Chancellor, the Khan looked like a ghost already.
