A glance around said the great hall felt wider, like a lake at low tide. Many trinkets had been cleared away and replaced with sleek, carved chairs.
Four white dragon statues now stood at the corners, like ice-white sentinels. The carpet had turned gold, three strips stitched like rivers, each flowing to a different wing. Together they sketched Emperor Paris’s White Dragon Roar sigil, like a serpent frozen mid-cry.
From the ceiling hung more pendants, a scatter of stars that dazzled like a shoal of silver fish. By candlelight, they would blaze brighter, a canopy of molten dusk. Standing here felt like standing in a rain of gold, and the wealthy guests soaked it up like sun-warmed stone.
At the hall’s heart, a strange white-dragon throne commanded the eye, like a beast crouched on fresh snow. Its armrests were long, razor talons; its back, a roaring white head. The breath it gave off dropped Medith into an ice cellar; cold crawled up her bones like winter water.
It had to be forged with a trove of Divine Stone, heavy as fate. Hand resting on her sword, Medith walked toward Paris, step by step, like crossing thin ice. Paris pressed both hands to the talons, his gaze grave as a storm, fixed on Medith. Beside him, Talant’s golden eyes flared like night stars, beautiful and blinding.
Shock flashed; then her wide eyes lowered like folding petals. The light turned into deep worry and quiet respect, like moonlight sinking into a lake.
Talant felt it in her bones, like a compass snapping north: Medith was an ally. She’d walked alone into the lion’s hall today; that said more than words.
On the left ranks, Haidra stood in a holy white floral gown, like a lily held high, noble and aloof. The close-cut silk traced her curves like a river line. A blush and red lips lent her a seasoned luster, like wine catching sun. Yet her face was all shock, lips parted like a petal in a sudden wind, as if she couldn’t believe Medith had truly come.
“Your humble servant, Medith, greets you, Emperor Paris,” she said, head dipping, hands set together like a sheathed blade. “And... please accept my condolences.”
Paris shook his head, helpless as a wind-tossed pine. “General, I’ve received your kindness. Such a sudden, tragic blow—Elyu and my father... it cuts like ice.
“Everyone knows Father loved the rooftop of his palace, watching stars with Mother, two lanterns under the night. That day, they were up there again, sifting old memories like dried herbs. Then the Meteor came, as if it had eyes, and fell true. It struck Father’s palace dead center, like a hammer to glass.
“Before that, Eunomia had staggered through calamities, one storm after another. I foresaw a great break coming and made full preparations, every latch and beam set. But human plans crumble under the sky’s hand. I shattered the man-made plot, yet I couldn’t bar the heaven-sent blow. Pitiful. Lamentable.”
He wore grief and regret like sackcloth, and the nobles took the cue. A chorus of soft voices rose, cooing comfort and tossing blame aside like hot coals. They praised him for doing all one could, a fine net with a single tear, urging him to mourn, then move forward like a boat after rain.
Cold settled first, then clarity. Hearing the hollow praise and seeing those hard, unfamiliar faces, Medith knew her guess had landed, like an arrow in a post. Confirmed.
By the throne, Talant’s left hand clutched the dragon’s back, anger flashing first like a struck spark. Her slender body trembled, a plucked string quivering to silence. She smoothed herself in a heartbeat, a mask sliding back into place. Even Velledo, who’d been watching her, missed the ripple.
Medith slid her eyes over, a knife under silk, and caught every twitch. She tucked that reaction away like a marked coin and drew a rough conclusion.
Her face tightened, frost before dawn, and her voice set like a drawn blade. “Your Majesty... it may be blunt, but tell me why you summoned me. I have pressing duties, a river of tasks these days. I can stay at most two days, then I must return. My apologies.”
