The grand halls of the royal palace shimmered beneath golden chandeliers, their light reflecting upon polished marble floors. Yet beneath this veneer of elegance lay an undercurrent of tension, thick enough to suffocate. Whispers clung to the air like shadows, half-spoken truths exchanged behind silk curtains and closed doors.
Duke Marcian strode through the corridor, his emerald cloak trailing behind him as his boots echoed against the stone. His expression was impassive, but his eyes betrayed the weight of unspoken schemes. As he approached the council chamber, the murmurs within fell silent. The heavy oak doors parted with a creak, revealing a room thick with anticipation.
"Your Grace," greeted Lord Avelric, rising from his seat with a shallow bow. His silver hair gleamed beneath the candlelight, though his eyes betrayed no warmth. Around the table, others inclined their heads in acknowledgment—some with respect, others with calculation.
Marcian took his seat at the head of the table, fingers tapping lightly against the armrest. "The border skirmishes continue," he began without preamble. "Yet His Majesty hesitates. How long will we wait before the enemy strikes in full force?"
"Patience, Duke Marcian," Avelric replied smoothly. "Rushing to arms could weaken our position. The king must maintain stability within the capital before—"
"Stability will mean nothing if the eastern gates fall," Marcian interrupted, his gaze sweeping across the council. "Our forces are stretched thin. If we do not act soon, we risk losing control of the border provinces entirely."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the room, though a few faces remained carefully neutral. The tension between the factions was growing by the day—those who favored decisive military action clashing against those who sought diplomacy.
Lord Ferand, a stout man with a hawkish gaze, leaned forward. "Perhaps... external assistance should be considered. The northern alliances—"
"Unnecessary," Marcian cut him off, voice sharp as a blade. "This kingdom stands on its own. Seeking aid would only invite foreign influence into our affairs."
"And yet we cannot deny our current limitations," Avelric countered, folding his hands atop the table. "His Majesty's resources are strained. Unless additional funding is secured—"
Marcian's gaze darkened. "Funding is not the issue. It is the king's refusal to act that weakens us."
Silence fell heavy in the room. Though none dared voice outright dissent against the crown, the implication lingered like a specter among them. Each man seated at the table understood the stakes—their actions in the coming days would shape the fate of the kingdom.
Beyond the chamber walls, unseen by any within, a silent observer moved through the palace's hidden corridors. Cloaked in shadows, Serene listened without a sound, her presence unnoticed among the maze of servant passages that threaded through the palace. Every word spoken within those gilded halls would soon reach her master's ears.
And as the council's debate continued, Serene slipped away, vanishing into the depths of the palace like a whisper carried upon the wind.