The tea service was already laid out when Metheea entered.
Fine porcelain. Steaming cups. Biscuits arranged with ceremonial precision. The room overlooked the eastern gardens, quiet and contained, chosen deliberately for discussions that were not meant to travel far.
High Chancellor Marlick stood as she arrived, offering a respectful incline of his head. Count Resca followed, slower, thoughtful, his hands folded behind his back.
Azrayel was already seated at the head of the table.
He did not rise.
He did not speak.
His posture was relaxed in the way only dragons ever managed, one arm resting against the chair, shoulders loose, golden eyes fixed on Metheea with an intensity that made her aware of every step she took toward her seat.
She ignored it.
They sat.
Servants poured tea and withdrew, closing the doors with soft finality.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then Count Resca cleared his throat.
