"Yes," Stanford said.
For several seconds, no one spoke.
The word did not need to be explained. Original portraits from the era of the first sovereigns were not simple oil and canvas, no matter what auction houses pretended when they wanted to sound respectable and harmless. They were painted with ether-burnt pigments, blood-ground minerals, powdered bone from old beasts, and stabilizing threads taken from the subject's own channel residue. They were not quite alive, but they remembered the power well enough to respond when summoned.
Felix had kept one in his private suite.
Arik's hand closed at his side, slowly enough that the room did not break from the pressure of it.
"Stanford," he said.
"Yes, Your Highness."
"Get treated."
Stanford's posture did not change. "After…"
"Now."
The word landed softly.
Stanford stopped.
