Dietrich arrived at the palace just before noon, the sun of Serathia peeking slyly between marble towers and bronze domes that glittered like freshly cut diamonds dipped in gold. The imperial carriage thundered through the main gate, iron wheels clanging against cobblestones worn smooth by centuries of power. No imperial banners fluttered in the lazy breeze, no tight phalanx of guards marched in formation as they usually did when the emperor traveled. Dietrich had brought only himself, and a lone driver at the reins.
The moment he stepped down, the floor of the grand hall greeted him with its familiar chill. The vaulted ceiling soared above, painted with old victories, wars won, thrones seized, betrayals crushed. Faces of past rulers stared down with hollow eyes, tracking his every stride. The air carried the mingled scent of beeswax, iron, and aged parchment, the unmistakable perfume of authority.
At the far end of the hall, right before the door to his study, a man waited.
