The chamber chosen for the private gathering of the old noble houses was hidden beneath the eastern wing of the palace—an archaic room with stone walls, dim lanterns, and a circular table scarred by centuries of political conspiracy. No servants were allowed inside. No guards were posted at the door. Only the eldest of each ruling house had received the sealed black invitation.
And every one of them arrived furious.
Viscount Kenelly was the last to enter, his face still carrying the bruised embarrassment of the gala. The moment he stepped inside, a dozen eyes snapped to him—judging, enraged, disappointed. The door thudded shut, locking them all in.
"This," snarled Marquis Darshelm, "is an absolute disaster."
A chorus of grumbles rippled through the room. Kenelly bowed stiffly, but it did nothing to soften the fury.
