The next day, the imperial council chamber hummed with low conversation and the soft scratch of styluses against tablets. Tall arched windows let in clean daylight, filtered through etched glass panes that pulsed faintly with the palace's ether wards. Brass sconces lined the walls, the glow of their lanterns steady and precise, powered by carefully tuned cores but designed to look traditional.
Damian Lyon sat at the head of the long table, black suit tailored like armor, cuffs sharp enough to cut. His posture was composed, almost lazy, one hand resting against a leather folio, the other loose at his side. Only his eyes betrayed him, molten gold, unreadable, and far too intent.
