The king's private hall was already full when Cassian entered.
Waiting.
The Northern envoys stood in a neat line near the windows, heavy furs draped over shoulders that had never learned how to bow properly. They watched everything with the careful, predatory patience of men who had come prepared to remember what they saw.
At the center of the hall, an obsidian table had been placed beneath the high skylight.
On it— arranged neatly were parchments, a quill and red wax melting slowly in its dish.
Stella stood to the right of the table.
She wore pale blue — deliberate, Cassian knew. A color meant to soften the eye. To suggest calm. Her posture was perfect. Her hands folded. Her face unreadable in the way the court had taught her to master since childhood.
Across from her, on the dais, the King sat with his fingers steepled.
Cassian felt the Ivy surge a bit before he reached the center of the room.
