The heavy doors to the council hall loomed before him, carved with the emblems of Zura's founding kings. The guards standing watch lowered their heads as Turik approached, and for a fleeting instant, he caught his own reflection in the polished steel of their armor—an unfamiliar man, robed in crimson and would soon be crowned by destiny.
The moment the doors swung open, sound rushed out to meet him. Trumpets blared, echoing off the vaulted ceiling; courtiers and nobles bowed in a synchronized wave of reverence. The air was thick with incense, with heat, with the unspoken tension of a world about to change.
Turik crossed the threshold slowly, each step measured, deliberate. He felt that he was walking on cloud nine. He could feel every gaze upon him—some filled with awe, others with quiet calculation. Power drew attention the way blood drew wolves.
