The council chamber was cold despite the braziers burning in the corners. Winter was settling into the stones of the palace, a damp chill that no amount of flame could fully dispel. The councillors sat in their accustomed places, old men in heavy cloaks, their breath misting faintly in the air.
Lysander stood at the center of the room, facing them. He had presented numbers before—grain stores, fleet capacities, buffer projections—but never like this. Never with the knowledge that the wrong presentation could doom the entire proposal before the debate even began.
Priam sat at the head of the table, wrapped in a thick wool cloak, his face drawn but his eyes alert. He had been resting more since his collapse, but he had insisted on attending this session. To his right, Hector stood with his arms crossed, a silent bulwark against whatever objections the council might raise. Hecuba sat near the window, her hands folded in her lap, her dark eyes watching everything.
