The atrium had been cleared with swift efficiency.
Lanterns now floated in elegant alignment, casting soft gold across the polished stone floor. The hedges lining the perimeter gave the space a coliseum-like intimacy, and while the entire court couldn't spill outside, enough had gathered along the open arches and upper terraces to form an eager, whispering audience. Velvet-robed nobles leaned forward beside wine-bearing courtiers. Even a few of the imperial guards had subtly turned their gaze, just enough to watch without breaking protocol.
A stage had been built—not with marble and curtains, but by silence, by tension, by the slow pulse of something real.
Thalor stepped just near the edge of the gathering, hands folded lightly before him. His gaze passed over the lanternlit floor, then lifted toward the stars above.
A clean field. Open air. Framed in decorum.
Fitting, he mused. No more shadows. No more subtext. Just action. That's what they wanted, isn't it?
